THE SIX NEW NOVELS
The car had again undergone a transformation.
With a new racing-body, built in Northampton, and painted dead white
picked out with gilt, no one would have recognised it as the car which
had carried away the clever jewel-thief from Bond Street.
Since the adventure at Leghorn I had seen nothing of La Belle Valentine.
With Bindo, however, I had driven the car across from Rome to Calais by
way of Ventimiglia and Marseilles, and, after crossing the Channel, I
had gone alone to Northampton, and there awaited the making of the smart
new racing-body.
Count Bindo di Ferraris, who seemed ever on the move, with an eye open
for "a good thing," wrote me from Ilfracombe, Southampton, Manchester,
Perth, Aberdeen, and other places, remitting me the necessary money, and
urging me to push on the work, as he wanted the car again immediately.
At last, when it was finished, I drove it to a garage I knew at the back
of Regent Street, and that same evening met him at the Royal Automobile
Club. At his request, I dressed smartly and gave no outward appearance
of the chauffeur; therefore he invited me to dine, and afterwards, while
we sat alone in a corner of the smoking-room, he began to unfold a
series of plans for the future. They were, however, hazy, and only
conveyed to me an idea that we were going on a long tour in England.
I ventured to remark that to be in England, after the little affair in
Bond Street, might be somewhat dangerous. He replied, however, with his
usual nonchalant air--
"My dear Ewart, there's not the slightest fear. Act as I bid, and trust
in me. To-morrow, at eleven, we go North together--into Yorkshire. You
will be my servant again after to-night. You understand--eh?"
"Perfectly. Shall we start from here?"
"Yes. But before we set out I can only warn you that you'll want all
your wits about you this time. If we have luck, we shall bring off a big
thing--a very big thing."
"And if we have no luck?"
"Well--well, we shan't bring it off--that's all," he laughed.
"Where are we going?"
"Yorkshire. To spend a week at the seaside. It will do us both good.
I've decided that the Scarborough air will be extremely beneficial to
us. One of our friends is already there--at the Grand."
"Sir Charles?"
"Exactly. He's very fond of Scarborough--likes the church parade on
Sundays, the music on the Spa, and all that kind of thing. So we'll join
him. I wonder if we shall get through in a day?"
"We ought to--with luck," was my response; and then, after urging me to
leave everything in his hands, he told me that I'd better get early to
bed, and thoroughly overhaul the car early next morning, before
starting.
So next day at ten he took his seat by my side outside the Club in
Piccadilly, and we drove away into the traffic towards Regent's Park, on
our way to that much overrated highway, the Great North Road. The day
was warm and dusty, and as it was a Saturday there were police-traps out
everywhere. Therefore progress was slow, for I was forced at every few
miles to slow down, to escape a ten-pound fine.
Leafy Hatfield, crooked Hitchin, quaint old Stamford, we passed, until
we swung into the yard of "The Angel," that antique and comfortable
hotel well known to all motorists at Grantham, where we had a hasty
meal.
Then out again in the sunset, we headed through Doncaster to York, and
in the darkness, with our big head-lamps shining, we tore through
Malton, and slipped down the hill into Scarborough. The run had been a
long and dusty one, the last fifty miles in darkness and at a high
speed, therefore when we pulled up before the Grand I leaned heavily
upon the steering-wheel, weary and fagged.
It was about eleven o'clock at night, and Sir Charles, who had evidently
been expecting our arrival in the big hall of the hotel, rushed out and
greeted Bindo effusively. Then, directed by a page-boy, who sat in the
Count's seat, I took the car round to Hutton's garage, close by.
With Sir Charles I noticed another man, young, with very fair hair--a
mere boy, he seemed--in evening clothes of the latest cut. When I
returned to the hotel I saw them all seated in the big hall over
whiskies and sodas, laughing merrily together. It was late, all the
other guests having retired.
Next day Bindo took the young man, whose name I discovered to be Paul
Clayton, for a run on the car to Bridlington. Bindo drove, and I sat
upon the step. The racing-body gave the "forty" a rakish appearance, and
each time we went up and down the Esplanade, or across the Valley
Bridge, we created considerable interest. After lunch we went on to
Hornsea, and returned to Scarborough at tea-time.
That same evening, after dinner, I saw Bindo's new friend walking on the
Esplanade with a fair-haired, well-dressed young girl. They were deep in
conversation, and it struck me that she was warning him regarding
something.
Days passed--warm, idle August days. Scarborough was full of visitors.
The Grand was overrun by a smartly dressed crowd, and the Spa was a
picturesque sight during the morning promenade. The beautiful
"Belvedere" grounds were a blaze of roses, and, being private property,
were regarded with envy by thousands who trod the asphalte of the
Esplanade. Almost daily Bindo took Paul for a run on the car. To York,
to Castle Howard, to Driffield, and to Whitby we went--the road to the
last-named place, by the way, being execrable. Evidently Bindo's present
object was to ingratiate himself with young Clayton, but with what
ulterior motive I could not conceive.
Sir Charles remained constantly in the background. Well dressed and
highly respectable, he presented a rather superior air, and walked on
the Spa at certain hours, establishing a kind of custom from which he
did not depart. He had now changed his name to Sinclair, while Bindo di
Ferraris went under the less foreign cognomen of Albert Cornforth. I
alone kept my own name, George Ewart.
As day succeeded day, I kept wondering what was really in the wind. Why
were they so friendly with Paul Clayton? Of one fact I felt assured, and
it was that jewels were not the object of the manoeuvre on this
occasion. That Bindo and his friends had laid some deep plot was, of
course, quite certain, but the Count never took me into his confidence
until the last moment, when the _coup_ was made. Therefore, try how I
would, I could not discover the intentions of the gang.
From Leghorn to Scarborough is a far cry. At least we were safe from
detection from all our little business affairs, save that of the Bond
Street jewellers. Continually I reflected that our description had been
circulated by the police, and that some enterprising constable or
detective might pick upon us on the off-chance of being correct.
Count Bindo--or Albert Cornforth, as he now chose to be known--was
having a most excellent time. He soon grew to know many people in the
hotel, and being so essentially a ladies' man was greatly in request at
the dances. Continually he apologised to the ladies for being unable to
take them motoring, but, as he explained, the space on a racing-car is
limited.
Thus a fortnight passed. Round at the garage were a number of cars from
London, Manchester, and elsewhere, and I soon grew friendly with several
expert chauffeurs, two of whom were old friends.
One day Bindo and I had been to Harrogate, dined at the Majestic, and
returned. After taking the car to the garage, I went out for a turn
along the Esplanade, in order to stretch my legs. It was midnight,
brightly starlit, and silent save for the low soughing of the waves upon
the shore. I had lit my pipe and walked nearly to the Holbeck Gardens,
at the extreme end of the South Cliff, when, in the darkness, I
discerned two figures sitting upon a seat in the shadow. One was a man,
and the other a woman in a light evening dress, with a wrap thrown over
her head and shoulders. As I passed I managed to get a glimpse of their
faces. One was Paul Clayton, and the other the pretty, fair-haired young
woman I had seen him with before. They were sitting in the attitude of
lovers. He held her hand and, I believe, had just raised it to his lips.
I hurried on, annoyed with myself for being so inquisitive. But the
beautiful face of the girl became impressed upon my memory.
Count Bindo, the nonchalant, audacious cosmopolitan, who spent money so
freely, was a veritable marvel of cleverness and cunning in all matters
of chicanery and fraud. He was evidently a man who, though still young,
had a pretty dark record. But what it really was he carefully concealed
from me. I can only admit that I had now become an adventurer like the
others, for in each case I had received a certain portion of the profits
of the _coups_ which we had assisted each other in effecting. True, we
lived a life full of excitement and change, but it was a life I liked,
for at heart I was nothing if not a wanderer and adventurer. I liked
adventure for adventure's sake, and cared nothing for the constant peril
of detection. Strange how easily one can be enticed from a life of
honesty into one of fraud, especially if the inducements held out are
an adequate recompense for any qualm of conscience.
The actions of our friend, Sir Charles Blythe, were also rather
puzzling. He seemed to be taking no part in whatever scheme was in
progress. If I met him in public on the Esplanade, or elsewhere, I
saluted him as a chauffeur should, but when we met unobserved I was his
equal, and on several occasions I made inquiries which he refused to
satisfy.
We had been nearly three weeks in Scarborough when, after dinner one
evening in the big hall of the hotel I saw the audacious Bindo seated
drinking coffee with a little, queer, wizen-faced, but rather
over-dressed old lady, towards whom he seemed to be particularly polite.
She was evidently one of those wrinkled, yellow-toothed old tabbies who
still believe themselves to be attractive, for, as I watched covertly, I
saw how she assumed various poses for the benefit of those seated in her
vicinity. Though so strikingly dressed, in a gown trimmed with beautiful
old lace, she wore no jewellery, save her wedding ring. Her airs and
mannerisms were, however, amusing, and quickly made it apparent that she
moved in a good set.
From the hall-porter I presently learned that she was a Mrs. Clayton, of
St. Mellions Hall, near Peterborough, the widow of a wealthy Oldham
cotton-spinner, who generally spent a month at that hotel each year.
"She's a quaint old girl," he informed me in confidence. "Thinks no end
of herself, and always trying to hang on to some woman with a title,
even if she's only a baronet's wife. Some ill-natured woman has
nicknamed her the Chameleon--because she changes her dresses so often
and is so fond of bright colours. But she's a good old sort," he added.
"Always pretty free with her tips. Her son is here too."
Whoever or whatever she was, it was evident that Bindo was busily
engaged ingratiating himself with her, having previously established a
firm friendship with her son, who, by the way, had left Scarborough on
the previous day.
I happened to have a friend who was chauffeur to a doctor in
Peterborough, therefore I wrote to him that evening, making inquiries
regarding St. Mellions and its owner. Three days later a reply came to
the effect that the Hall was about ten miles from Peterborough, and one
of the finest country seats in Northamptonshire. It had been the
property of a well-known earl, who, having become impoverished by
gambling, had sold it, together with the great estate, to old Joshua
Clayton, the Lancashire millionaire. "She keeps a couple of cars," my
friend concluded. "One is a Humber voiturette, and the other a
twenty-four Mercedes. You know her chauffeur--Saunders--from the Napier
works."
Of course I knew Saunders. He was once a very intimate friend of mine,
but for the past couple of years I had lost sight of him.
Why, I wondered, was Bindo so intensely interested in the over-dressed
old crone? He walked with her constantly on the Spa, or along the
Esplanade; he lounged at her side when she sat to watch the parading
summer girls and their flirtations, and he idled at coffee with her
every evening. After a few days Sir Charles Blythe, alias Sinclair, was
introduced. By prearrangement the bogus baronet chanced to be standing
by the railings looking over the Spa grounds one morning when Bindo and
his companion strolled by. The men saluted each other, and Bindo asked
Mrs. Clayton's leave to introduce his friend. The instant the magic
title was spoken the old lady became full of smiles and graces, and the
trio walking together passed along in the direction of Holbeck.
Two days later Henderson appeared on the scene quite suddenly. I was
walking along Westborough late one evening when somebody accosted me,
and, turning, I found it was our friend--whom I believed to be still on
the Continent. He was dressed as foppishly as usual, and certainly
betrayed no evidence that he was a "crook."
"Well, Ewart?" he asked. "And how goes things? Who's this old crone
we've got in tow? A soft thing, Bindo says."
I told him all I knew concerning her, and he appeared to be reassured.
He had taken a room at the Grand, he told me, and I afterwards found
that on the following morning Bindo pretended to discover him at the
hotel, and introduced him to the unsuspecting old lady as young Lord
Kelham. Mrs. Clayton was delighted at thus extending her
acquaintanceship with England's bluest blood.
That same afternoon the old lady, who seemed to be of a rather sporting
turn of mind, expressed a desire to ride upon a racing-car; therefore I
brought round the "forty," and Bindo drove her over to Malton, where we
had tea, and a quick run back in the evening. There are no police-traps
on the road between Scarborough and York, therefore we were able to put
on a move, and the old lady expressed the keenest delight at going so
fast. As I sat upon the step at her feet, she seemed constantly alarmed
lest I should fall off.
"My own cars never go so quickly," she declared. "My man drives at
snail's pace."
"Probably because you have traps in Northamptonshire," Bindo replied.
"There are always lurking constables along the Great North Road and the
highways leading into it. But you must let me come and take your
driver's place for a little while. If the cars are worth anything at
all, I'll get the last mile out of them."
"I only wish you would come and pay me a visit, Mr. Cornforth. I should
be so very delighted. Do you shoot?"
"A little," Bindo answered. "My friend, Sir Charles Sinclair, is said to
be one of the best shots in England. But I'm not much of a shot myself."
"Then can't you persuade him to come with you?"
"Well, I'll ask him," my employer replied. "He has very many
engagements, however. He's so well known--you see."
"He'll come if you persuade him, I'm sure," the old lady said, with what
she believed to be a winning smile. "You can drive my Mercedes, and he
can shoot. I always have a house-party through September, so you both
must join it. I'll make you as comfortable as I can in my humble house.
Paul will be at home."
"Humble, Mrs. Clayton? Why, I have, years ago, heard St. Mellions spoken
of as one of the show-houses of the Midlands."
"Then you've heard an exaggeration, my dear Mr. Cornforth," was her
response, as she laughed lightly. "Remember, I shall expect you, and you
can bring your own car if you like. Our roads are fairly good, you'll
find."
Bindo accepted with profuse thanks, and shot me a glance by which I knew
that he had advanced one step further towards the consummation of his
secret intentions--whatever they were. Sir Charles would, no doubt, go
with us. What, I wondered, was intended?
Three weeks later we arrived one evening at St. Mellions, and found it a
magnificent old Tudor mansion, in the centre of a lordly domain, and
approached from the high road by a great beech avenue nearly a mile in
length. The older wing of the house--part of an ancient Gothic
abbey--was ivy-covered, while in front of the place was a great lake,
originally the fish-pond of the Carmelite monks.
It wanted an hour before dinner when we arrived, and at sound of our
horn nearly a dozen merry men and women of the house-party came forth to
greet us.
"They seem a pretty smart crowd," remarked Bindo under his breath to Sir
Charles, seated beside him.
"Yes, but we'll want all our wits about us," replied the other. "I hear
that the wife of Gilling, the jeweller in Bond Street, is here with her
daughter. Suppose her husband takes it into his head to run down here
for the week-end--eh?"
"We won't suppose anything of the sort, my dear fellow. I always hate
supposing. It's a bad habit when you've got your living to earn, as we
have."
And with those words he ran along to the main entrance, and pulled up
sharply, being greeted by our hostess herself, who, in a cream serge
dress, stood upon the steps and shouted us a warm welcome.
My two friends were quickly introduced by Paul to the assembled party,
while several of the men came around the car to admire it, one of them
questioning me as to its horse-power, its make, and other details,
inquiries which showed his ignorance. Round in the garage I found my
friend Saunders, and later on he took me over the splendid old place,
filled as it was with the relics of the noble but now decadent English
family.
My eyes and ears were open everywhere. The house-party, numbering
eighteen, consisted mostly of the parvenu set, people who having made
money by trade were now attempting to pass as county families. The men
possessed for the most part the air of "the City," and the womenkind
were painfully "smart" without the good breeding necessary to carry it
off.
After dinner, under the guidance of Saunders, I managed to get a glimpse
of the great hall, where the party had assembled for coffee. It was a
fine, lofty, oak-panelled old place, once the refectory of the monks,
with great Gothic windows of stained glass, antique cabinets, and stands
of armour. Against the dark oak, from floor to ceiling, the dresses of
the women showed well, and, amid the laughter and chatter, I saw the
gay, careless Bindo--a well-set-up, manly figure in his evening
clothes--standing beside his hostess, chatting and laughing with her,
while Sir Charles was bending over the chair of a pretty, fair-haired
girl in turquoise, whom I recognised as the same girl I had seen with
Paul at Scarborough. Her name was Ethel Gilling, Saunders said, and told
me that young Clayton was, in secret, deeply in love with her. Would
her father arrive and put a premature end to our conspiracy? I feared
that he might.
Saunders asked me a good deal about my berth and position, and I fancy
he envied me. He did not know that I had become a "crook" like my
master, but believed me to be a mere chauffeur whose duties took him
hither and thither across Europe. No chauffeur can bear private service
with a cheap car in a circumscribed area. Every man who drives a
motor-car--whether master or servant--longs for wide touring and a
high-power car.
Contrary to Bindo's declaration, he proved to be a very good shot, while
Sir Charles provoked the admiration of all the men when, next morning,
they went forth in search of birds. That same afternoon Bindo drove the
Mercedes containing Mrs. Clayton and three ladies of the party, while I
drove one of the men--a Captain Halliday--in our own car, and we all
went over to the ruins of Crowland Abbey. Saunders had told me that he
had never driven the Mercedes to her full power, as his mistress was so
nervous. But, with Bindo driving, the old lady now seemed to want to go
faster and faster. Our car was, of course, the more powerful, and ere we
had gone ten miles I put on a move, and passed my master with ease,
arriving at Crowland fully twenty minutes before him.
It was, however, very apparent that Bindo, the good-looking adventurer,
had wormed himself entirely into the Chameleon's good graces. Both he
and Halliday escorted the ladies over the ruins, and after tea at the
old-fashioned "George," we made a quick and enjoyable run home in the
sunset by way of Eye, Peterborough, Castor, and Wansford.
The autumn days went by, and, amid such pleasant surroundings, our visit
was proving a most merry one. Yet, try how I would, I could not see what
Bindo and his friend intended.
The girl in turquoise who flirted so outrageously with young Clayton
was, I discovered, also very friendly with Sir Charles. Then I saw that
his partiality towards her was with a distinct object--namely, in order
to be aware of her father's movements.
Truly, Bindo and Blythe were past-masters in the art of genteel
scoundrelism. Adventurers of the very first water, they seldom, if ever,
let me into their secrets until their plans were actually matured. Their
reason for this reticence was that they believed I might show the white
feather. They could not yet rely upon my audacity or courage.
Within a week Bindo was the most popular man in the house-party, the
humorist of the dinner-table, and an expert in practical jokes, of which
many were being played, one half the party being pitted against the
other half, as is so often the case.
In the servants' hall we were also having a pretty merry time.
Medhurst, the maid of Mrs. Clayton, was a particularly prepossessing
young woman, and I had many chats and a few walks with her. From her, at
Bindo's instigation, I learned a good deal regarding her mistress's
habits and tastes, all of which I, in due course, reported to my master.
A shrewd girl was Medhurst, however, and I was compelled to exercise a
good deal of judicious tact in putting my questions to her.
One evening, however, while sitting alone in the park smoking, just
before going to bed, I saw Bindo himself strolling at her side. She was
speaking softly, but what about I could not make out. They were in a
part of the park into which the guests never went, and it seemed as
though she had kept a secret tryst. Not wishing to disturb them, I
slipped away unobserved.
Next morning Paul Clayton went up to London in order to see his mother's
solicitors, and that same afternoon, about four o'clock, Mrs. Clayton
received a very urgent telegram to come at once, as her lawyers desired
some instructions immediately. The message she received evidently caused
her very great anxiety, for she took Medhurst, and drove in the Mercedes
to Peterborough Station, where she caught the up-express at seven
o'clock.
She had apologised to her house-party for her absence, explained the
urgency of her presence in London, and promised to be back in time for
dinner on the morrow.
She left the Hall at half-past six. At seven Bindo called me out of the
servants' hall and whispered--
"Hold yourself in readiness. Go to my room at nine punctually, and
you'll find on the table half a dozen novels done up in a strap. Just
take them carefully, put them in the car, and then get away, first to
Northampton to change the body of the car, and then to Parkeston Quay.
Wait for me there at the Great Eastern Hotel, in the name of Parker.
Take great care of the books. I shall give you other instructions before
people presently, but take no notice of them. I'll join you as soon as
it's safe."
And with that, he turned upon his heel and left me.
The dressing-gong was just sounding as I walked across to the garage, in
order to look through the car and charge the lamps, prior to my night
journey. I was wondering what was about to happen. That some _coup_ was
to be made that night was very evident. I spent half an hour on the car,
and had all in order, when a servant came to say that my master wanted
me.
I found Bindo in the hall, laughing gaily with some ladies, prior to
going in to dinner.
"Oh, Ewart," he said, when I entered, cap in hand, "I want you to run
the car over to Birmingham to-night, and bring Colonel Fielding here
to-morrow. You know where he lives--at Welford Park. He's expecting you.
The roads are all right, so you'll make good time. You'd better get a
couple of outer covers, too, when you're there. You'll bring the Colonel
back in time for dinner to-morrow--you understand?"
"Yes, sir," I replied, and, bowing, went out, while with the ladies he
turned in the direction of the dining-room.
I idled about until the stable clock was just on the point of striking
nine, when I made my way by the servants' staircase to my master's room.
The corridor was in semi-darkness. I rapped, but there being no one
there, I entered, switched on the light, and there upon the table found
the small pile of new, cloth-bound six-shilling novels, held together
with a strap of webbing, such as lawyers use to tie up their papers.
I took them up, switched off the light, and carried them downstairs to
the car, which I had previously brought out into the stable-yard. My
lamps were already lit, and I was in the act of putting on my frieze
coat when Saunders, driving the Mercedes, passed me, going towards the
main entrance of the Hall. He had a passenger--a guest from the station,
judging from his dress.
As the stranger descended from the car the light over the steps revealed
his face. I started. It was the jeweller I had spoken to in Bond
Street--the man I had taken for the manager, but who was none other than
Mr. Gilling himself!
I saw that all was lost. In a few moments he would come face to face
with Bindo!
In an instant, however, I had made up my mind, and, re-entering the
house, I made my way quickly through into the large hall. But Gilling
was already there, kissing his wife and daughter. I glanced round, but
was reassured to see both Bindo and Sir Charles were absentees. Did they
know of Gilling's impending arrival?
I ran up to the rooms of both my friends, but could not find them. In
Bindo's room a dress-coat had been thrown upon the bed. He had changed
since I had been up there for the books. Alarmed by the news of the
jeweller's arrival, they had, in all probability, changed hurriedly and
slipped away. Therefore I ran down to the car, and, telling Saunders
that I was off to Birmingham and should return on the morrow, I ran
quietly down the long, dark avenue.
From St. Mellions to Harwich, as the crow flies, is about one hundred
and thirty miles. First, however, I went to Northampton, and put the
previous body on the car. Then the road I took was by Huntingdon,
Cambridge, Halstead, and Colchester--in all, about one hundred and
seventy miles. The night was dark, but the roads were in fairly good
condition, therefore I went at as high a speed as I dared, full of
wonder as to what had really happened.
Bindo's dress-coat on the bed showed that he had left, therefore I had
every hope that he had not been recognised by the jeweller. After I had
changed the body at the coachbuilder's at Northampton, the run to the
Essex coast proved an exciting one, for I had one narrow escape at a
level crossing. But to give details of the journey would serve no
purpose. Suffice it to say that I duly arrived at the Great Eastern
Hotel at Parkeston next morning, and registered there in the name of
Parker.
Then I waited in patience until, two days later, I received a note from
Bindo, and met him at some distance from the hotel. His personal
appearance was greatly altered, and he was shabbily dressed as a
chauffeur.
"By Jove!" he said, when we were alone, "we've had a narrow squeak. We
had no idea when Henderson sent that telegram from London calling the
old crone up to town that Gilling had been invited. We only heard of his
impending arrival at the very moment we were bringing off the _coup_.
Then, instead of remaining there, becoming indignant, and assisting the
police, we were compelled to fly, thus giving the whole game away. If we
had stayed, Gilling would have recognised us. By Jove! I never had such
a tough quarter of an hour in all my life. Blythe has gone up to
Scotland, and we shall ship the car across to Hamburg by to-night's boat
from Parkeston. You've got those books all right? Don't lose them."
"I've left them in the car," I replied.
"Left them in the car!" he cried, glaring at me. "Are you mad?"
"Mad! Why?"
"Go and get them at once and lock them up in your bag. I'll show you
something when we get an opportunity."
The opportunity came three days later, when we were alone together in a
room in Hoefer's Hotel, in the Bahnhofs-Platz, in Hamburg. He took the
books from me, undid the buckle, and, to my surprise, showed me that the
centres of the popular books had been cleverly cut out, so that they
were literally boxes formed by the paper leaves. And each book was
filled with splendid jewels!
The haul was a huge one, for several of the diamond ornaments which had
been taken from the Chameleon's safe were of great value. The old lady
was passionately fond of jewellery, and spent huge sums with Mr.
Gilling. We afterwards discovered that several of the finest pieces we
had taken had actually been sent to her on approval by Gilling, so,
curiously enough, we had touched his property on a second occasion.
"It was a difficult affair," Bindo declared. "I had to pretend to make
love to Medhurst, or I should never have been able to get a cast of the
safe-key. However, we've been able to take the best of the old lady's
collection, and they'll fetch a good price in Amsterdam, or I'm a
Dutchman myself. Of course, there's a big hue-and-cry after us, so we
must lie very low over here for a bit. Fancy your leaving those novels
kicking about in the car! Somebody might have wanted to read them!"