With a jerk the cab drew up against the pavement. Tossing the reins on
the horse's back, the driver was lumbering down. That Santa might have
time to compose herself, Hindwood leaned quickly out, slamming the door
behind him.
“Where've you brought us?”
“It's a good 'otel,” the man grumbled, on the defensive, staring at the
gray cliff of shrouded windows. “It was a good 'otel you wanted. And
then it's h'opposite the London Station where the train starts in the
marnin'. It'll give the missis ten minutes extry in bed.”
“The missis!” Hindwood frowned. “If you refer to the lady who's with me,
she's not my 'missis.'”
The man became sly. Stretching a fat finger along his nose, he edged
nearer and whispered: “Between you and me that's h'alright. Wot wiv
drivin' so many gentry from the Contingnong me own morals are almost
foreign.”
Hindwood turned from him coldly. “You're on the wrong tack. And now how
does one get into this hotel? Will they admit us at such an hour?”
“H'at h'all hours. H'absolutely h'at h'all hours.”
“If that's the case,” he thrust his head inside the cab, “you stay here,
Santa. I'll go and find out.”
In a few minutes he was back. “They'll take us. Go inside and wait while
I settle with the driver.” When he joined her at the desk, he found it
necessary to make the same explanation that he had already made to
the cabman. The night-porter had allotted them one room, taking it for
granted they were married. He had to be informed that two were required.
“D'you want 'em on the same floor and next to each other?”
“On the roof if you like,” Hindwood answered impatiently, “only let us
get to bed. We're, or rather _I'm_ catching the eight-thirty train to
London in the morning, and it's nearly daylight now. How about you?” He
turned to Santa. “What train are you catching?”
“The same as you.”
“Then we might as well breakfast together?”
She nodded.
Turning again to the night-porter, he said, “Put us both down for a call
at seven.”
The man was leading the way upstairs. As they followed, Santa whispered,
“You see, you were mistaken.”
“How?”
“You threatened that we'd be detained and questioned. You frightened me
terribly. We weren't.”
“No. We weren't.”
She slipped her arm through his companionably. “I feel so relieved and
happy. I don't believe there was a tragedy. The Prince changed his mind
at the last moment; he's landing at Boulogne or Rotterdam. It may even
have been a strategy to mislead some enemy who was waiting for him here
in Plymouth.”
“Perhaps. I never thought of that.”
Their rooms were on different floors. The porter showed the way to hers
first. Now that they had to separate, Hindwood would have given much for
a private word with her. Discreetly, outside her door, in the presence
of the night-porter, they parted.
“Then we meet at breakfast,” he reminded her.
“At breakfast,” she assented. “And let's hope that we don't oversleep
ourselves.”