This commercial optimist was still haunting the courtyard of the
hotel at a time when a very handsome limousine pulled up beside
the curb and a sprucely attired Hindu stepped out. One who had
been in the apartments of Ormuz Khan must have recognized his
excellency's private secretary. Turning to the chauffeur, a
half-caste of some kind, and ignoring the presence of the prophet
who had generously opened the door, "You will return at eight
o'clock," he said, speaking perfect and cultured English, "to
take his excellency to High Claybury. Make a note, now, as I
shall be very busy, reminding me to call at Lower Claybury
station for a parcel which will be awaiting me there."
"Yes, sir," replied the chauffeur, and he touched his cap as the
Hindu walked into the hotel.
The salesman reclosed the door of the car, and spat reflectively
upon the pavement.
Limping wearily, he worked his way along in the direction of
Chancery Lane. But, before reaching Chancery Lane, he plunged
into a maze of courts with which he was evidently well
acquainted. His bookselling enterprise presently terminated, as
it had commenced, at The Chancery Agency.
Once more safe in his dressing room, the pedler rapidly
transformed himself into Paul Harley, and Paul Harley, laying his
watch upon the table before him, lighted his pipe and indulged in
half an hour's close thinking.
His again electing to focus his attention upon Ormuz Khan was
this time beyond reproach.
Pages:
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162