Mr. Giveen, left alone in Mr. Dashwood's chambers, took a comfortable
seat in an arm-chair and gazed around him.
He felt that he had fallen on his feet. He had extracted two bottles of
ginger-beer, some biscuits, and a drive in a taxicab from his new-found
friend. He was going to extract a dinner. He was about to have his
revenge on French. All these things combined to cast him into a pleasant
and amused state of mind, and he looked with satisfaction at all the
evidences of well-being around him.
Then he got up and began a circuit of the room, looking at the prints on
the wall, examining his own face in the looking-glass, touching the
boxing-gloves and foils. Then he examined the writing-table. Fortunately
there were no letters with Mr. Dashwood's name on them, and when he had
turned over the books and taken another peep at himself in the glass he
resumed his seat, and presently fell into a doze which deepened into
slumber.
He had slept like this for some three-quarters of an hour, when he was
awakened by the entry of his new friend.
"Well," said Bobby in a cheerful voice. "How are you getting along? Been
asleep, hey? Now, look here, I want you to come out to dinner with me."
"Right you are," said Mr. Giveen, rubbing his eyes. "I'm with you--hay
yow!--I'm half moidhered with all me travelling. And what's become of
Miss What's-her-name?"
"She--oh, we're going to meet her at dinner. She's gone on in her
motor-car."
"So she keeps a motor-car, does she?" said Mr. Giveen, rising and
pulling down his waistcoat.
"Rather! She keeps two. Why, she has half a million of money of her own.
And, look here," said the artful Bobby, "I'm only taking you to dinner
with her on one condition."
"And what's that?"
"Well, I'm rather sweet on her myself, do you see?"
"Oh, faith, you may trust me," said Mr. Giveen, in high good spirits.
"I'm not a marrying man, or I'd have been snapped up years ago, musha!
But oughtn't I to go back to me hotel for a black coat?"
"Oh, you won't want any black coats where we're going to," said Bobby
with grim jocularity. "They are most unconventional people. But, maybe,
you'd like to wash your hands. This is my bedroom."
He ushered his guest into the bedroom and left him there. When he
returned to the sitting-room he found Robert waiting for him with the
announcement that some parcels had come.
"Let's see them," said Mr. Dashwood.
Four large brown-paper parcels were on the floor of the landing; they
had just arrived from Thompson's, the big Italian warehouse in Regent
Street.
"That's right," said Bobby. "I'm taking them down to a place. And, see
here, Robert, I may be away a few days. I've got a car coming; it will
be at the Vigo Street entrance in a few minutes. Just keep a lookout for
it, and let me know when it arrives."
"Yes, sir. Shall I pack you some things?"
"Yes; shove a few things into a bag--enough for a week--and stow the bag
and these parcels in the back of the car when it comes."
Twenty minutes later, to Mr. Dashwood and his companion appeared Robert,
with the announcement that the car was in readiness.
Bobby led the way to the Vigo Street entrance, where, drawn up at the
kerb, stood a 40-h. p. Daimler car with lamps lit. Bobby looked at this
formidable locomotive with an appreciative eye, and the chauffeur sent
with it by Simpson getting down, he mounted and took the steering
collar. Giveen, innocent of danger as a lamb entering the yard of the
butcher, got in and took his seat beside Mr. Dashwood.
"Right!" said Bobby.
He backed into Cork Street, and then, turning again into Vigo Street,
passed into Regent Street.
"How far is it, did you say, to Miss Kitchen's?" asked Mr. Giveen.
"I didn't say--but it's not far--at least, with this car. Are you used
to motors?"
"No, faith, I've never driven in one before. And are you used to driving
them?"
"Oh, pretty well."
"Do you ever have accidents?"
"Accidents! Rather. That's half the fun. The last accident I had the car
turned turtle and pinned the fellow that was with us under the engine.
The petrol spilt on him, and a spark set it on fire."
"Good heavens!" said the horrified Giveen. "Was he burnt?"
"Was who burnt?"
"The chap with the petrol on him."
"Burnt! Why, they gathered up his ashes in a bucket. Didn't you read
about it in the papers?"
"No," said Mr. Giveen. "I didn't."
They passed down the Strand. The night was clear and warm for the time
of the year, a fortunate circumstance for Mr. Giveen, as he had no
overcoat. They passed up Fleet Street, by St. Paul's, and down
Bishopsgate Street.
"Is it anywhere near here?" asked Giveen as they passed Whitechapel
Church and turned into the old coaching road to Ilford.
"Is what near here?" asked Bobby.
"The place we're going to."
"Oh, it's about sixty or eighty miles."
"Sixty or eighty miles!"
"Yes. That's nothing to a car like this. You just see how I'm going to
make her hum. I haven't had a car like this to drive since I came out of
that beastly asylum place."
"I beg your pardon?" said Giveen, cold shivers going up his back. "Did
you say--did I understand you to say--which asylum place was it, did you
say?"
"Don't bother me with questions," replied Mr. Dashwood, "for when people
talk to me when I'm driving, I'm sure to do something wrong."