The widow, after a brief chat, returned to town by rail, while Garrett drove his master back to Dover Street.
That night his Highness dined with the widow at the Langham, and she bestowed upon him fulsome praise regarding his prowess.
“What make of car is yours?” she asked while they were lingering over their dessert in the widow’s private sitting-room.
“It’s the St. Christopher,” he answered.
“St. Christopher!” she echoed. “What a funny name to give a car!”
“It may appear so at first sight, but St. Christopher has been taken by motorists on the Continent as their patron saint—the saint who for ages has guarded the believer against the perils of the way. So it’s really appropriate, after all.”
“I heard them say that you’ve made the fortune of the car by your success to-day,” she remarked.
“Yes,” he answered carelessly. “Anybody who cared to put in a few thousands now would receive a magnificent return for their money—twenty-five per cent, within a year.”
“You think so?” she asked interestedly. “Think, Mrs Edmondson?” he echoed. “I’m sure of it! Why, the St. Christopher now holds the world’s record, and you know what that means. The makers will begin to receive far more orders than they can ever execute. Look at the Napier, the Itala, the Fiat, and others. The same thing has happened. The St. Christopher, however, is in the hands of two men only, and they, unfortunately, lack capital.”
“You should help them, if it’s such a good thing.”