They will have your baggage ready, and give you
full directions. From that moment you are in my service. And now, the
order is silence, yes?"
While the Baron was speaking he touched an electric bell. The waxen-
faced man-servant appeared, laboriously wrote "William Jenkins" where
he was bid, and escorted Royson to the door. The Baron merely nodded
when Dick said "Good night, sir." He had picked up an opera hat and
overcoat from a chair, but was bestowing a hasty farewell glance on the
Persi-Arabic letter.
A closed carriage and pair of horses were standing in front of the
house, and Royson recognized the coachman. It was that same Spong who
had groveled in the mud of Buckingham Palace Road nine hours ago. And
the man knew him again, for he raised his whip in a deferential salute.
"Not much damage done this morning?" cried Dick.
"No, sir. I drove 'em home afterwards, broken pole an' all," said
Spong.
"That's not the same pair, is it?"
"No, sir. This lot is theayter, the bays is park."
So Mr.
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