He swayed, as though he had been struck by a bullet. He glanced round
feverishly, fearing lest he might espy another placard stating, “Santa
Gorlof Arrested.” But no--for the moment she was safe. He thanked God
for the touring-car and the forethought of the foreign gentleman who
could speak no English.
Quickly he began to readjust his plans. If he went to claim his trunks,
there was no telling by whom he might be met--newspaper men, detectives,
officials from the Foreign Office. Moreover, Santa's trunks were in the
van. When he had explained himself, he might be called upon to account
for her absence. There was only one thing for him to do: for her sake he
must get out of England. If he delayed, he might be prevented. It would
be unwise for him to go to the Ritz; he must spend the night at some
obscure hotel. The only place to which he might be traced was the
Embassy; but he would have to risk that--it was of the utmost importance
that he should pick up his communications.
He was on the point of making good his escape, when the porter trundled
up with his barrow.
“Hi, mister! Where are you goin'? I'll be needin' you to identify 'em.”
“I know you will.” Hindwood turned on him a face which was flustered.
“But I've just remembered I have an engagement. I'll send for them
later. It'll make no difference to you; here's what I should have paid
you.”
The man, having inspected it carefully, pocketed the half-crown. “It
won't take long,” he suggested; “me and the barrow's ready. And it won't
cost you nothink, seein' as how you've paid me.”
“No time.”
Without more ado, he made a dash for the nearest taxi. “As fast as you
like,” he told the driver; “the faster, the bigger your fare.”
He fled out of the station at a forbidden rate, but after half a mile
the taxi halted against the curb. Lowering the window, he looked out.
“What's the matter? Something wrong with your engine?”
“We ain't been follered. You can calm down,” the driver assured him
soothingly. “Wot's wrong is that you ain't told me no address.”
“Stupid of me! The American Embassy.”
At the Embassy, having explained his errand, he was requested to wait.
Then, rather to his surprise, instead of having his letters handed
to him, he was shown into a handsome room where, at the far end, a
gray-haired man was seated, sorting papers behind a large mahogany
table.
Hindwood crossed the room and held out his hand.
“I'm Philip Hindwood, the railroad expert. I guess you've heard of me.
I called in case there was some mail for me. I had no intention of
troubling you personally.”
“I'm glad you've come,” said the gray-haired man gravely. “If you hadn't
troubled me, I should have had to trouble you. There have been inquiries
for you. They have to do with a woman who goes by the name of Santa
Gorlof. The police thought you might know something about her. It seems
she's wanted.”