“Well, let’s get gay over the first, as a kickoff,” said Jerningham, rising. “There’s a car outside the door; there is England at our disposal. We’ll take him away; you pad the hoof to Victoria and catch the boat-train.”
“It sounds too easy,” remarked Hugh. “Have a look out of the window, Ted, and you’ll see a man frightfully busy doing nothing not far from the door. You will also see a racing-car just across the street. Put a wet compress on your head, and connect the two.”
A gloomy silence settled on the assembly, to be broken by Jerry Seymour suddenly waking up with a start.
“I’ve got the stomachache,” he announced proudly.
His listeners gazed at him unmoved.
“You shouldn’t eat so fast,” remarked Algy severely. “And you certainly oughtn’t to drink that beer.”
To avert the disaster he immediately consumed it himself, but Jerry was too engrossed with his brainstorm to notice.
“I’ve got the stomachache,” he repeated, “and she ought to be ready by now. In fact I know she is. My last crash wasn’t a bad one. What about it?”
“You mean … ?” said Hugh, staring at him.
“I mean,” answered Jerry, “that I’ll go off to the aerodrome now, and get her ready. Bring Potts along in half an hour, and I’ll take him to the Governor’s place in Norfolk. Then I’ll take you over to Paris.”
“Great!—simply great!” With a report like a gun Hugh hit the speaker on the back, inadvertently knocking him down. Then an idea struck him. “Not your place, Jerry; they’ll draw that at once. Take him to Ted’s; Lady Jerningham won’t mind, will she, old boy?”
“The mater mind?” Ted laughed. “Good Lord, no; she gave up minding anything years ago.”
“Right!” said Hugh. “Off you get, Jerry. By the way, how many will she hold?”
“Two beside me,” spluttered the proud proprietor of the Stomachache. “And I wish you’d reserve your endearments for people of your own size, you great, fat, hulking monstrosity.”
He reached the door with a moment to spare, and Hugh came back laughing.
“Verily—an upheaval in the grey matter,” he cried, carefully refilling his glass. “Now, boys, what about Paris?”
“Is it necessary to go at all?” asked Peter.
“It wouldn’t have been if the Yank had been sane,” answered Drummond. “As it is, I guess I’ve got to. There’s something going on, young fellahs, which is big; and I can’t help thinking one might get some useful information from the meeting at the Ritz tonight. Why is Peterson hand-in-glove with a wild-eyed, ragged-trousered crowd of revolutionaries? Can you tell me that? If so, I won’t go.”
“The great point is whether you’ll find out, even if you do,” returned Peter. “The man’s not going to stand in the hall and shout it through a megaphone.”
“Which is where Ted comes in,” said Hugh affably. “Does not the Stomachache hold two?”
“My dear man,” cried Jerningham, “I’m dining with a perfectly priceless she tonight!”
“Oh, no, you’re not, my lad. You’re going to do some amateur acting in Paris. Disguised as a waiter, or a chambermaid, or a coffee machine or something—you will discover secrets.”
“But good heavens, Hugh!” Jerningham waved both hands in feeble protest.
“Don’t worry me,” cried Drummond, “don’t worry me; it’s only a vague outline, and you’ll look great as a bath-sponge. There’s the telephone. … Hullo!” He picked off the receiver. “Speaking. Is that you, Toby? Oh! The Rolls has gone, has it? With Peterson inside. Good! So long, old dear.”
He turned to the others.
“There you are, you see. He’s left for Paris. That settles it.”
“Conclusively,” murmured Algy mildly. “Any man who leaves a house in a motorcar always goes to Paris.”
“Dry up!” roared Hugh. “Was your late military education so utterly lacking that you have forgotten the elementary precept of putting yourself in the enemy’s place? If I was Peterson, and I wanted to go to Paris, do you suppose that fifty people knowing about it would prevent me? You’re a fool, Algy—and leave me some more beer.”
Resignedly Algy sat down, and after a pause for breath, Drummond continued:
“Now listen—all of you. Ted—off you go, and raise a complete waiter’s outfit, dicky and all complete. Peter—you come with me to the aerodrome, and afterwards look up Mullings, at 13 Green Street, Hoxton, and tell him to get in touch with at least fifty demobilised soldiers who are on for a scrap. Algy—you hold the fort here, and don’t get drunk on my ale. Peter will join you, when he’s finished with Mullings, and he’s not to get drunk either. Are you all on?”
“On,” muttered Darrell weakly. “My head is playing an anthem.”
“It’ll play an oratorio before we’re through with this job, old son,” laughed Hugh. “Let’s get gay with Potts.”
Ten minutes later he was at the wheel of his car with Darrell and the millionaire behind. Algy, protesting vigorously at being, as he said, left out of it, was endeavouring to console himself by making out how much he would have won if he’d followed his infallible system of making money on the turf; Jerningham was wandering along Piccadilly anxiously wondering at what shop he could possibly ask for a dicky, and preserve his hitherto blameless reputation. But Hugh seemed in no great hurry to start. A whimsical smile was on his face, as out of the corner of his eye he watched the man who had been busy doing nothing feverishly trying to crank his car, which, after the manner of the brutes, had seized that moment to jib.
“Get away, man—get away,” cried Peter. “What are you waiting for?”
Hugh laughed.
“Peter,” he remarked, “the refinements of this game are lost on you.”
Still smiling, he got out and walked up to the perspiring driver.
“A warm day,” he murmured. “Don’t hurry; we’ll wait for you.” Then, while the man, utterly taken aback, stared at him speechlessly, he strolled back to his own car.
“Hugh—you’re mad, quite mad,” said Peter resignedly, as with a spluttering roar the other car started, but Hugh still smiled. On the way to the aerodrome
