hotel porter on arriving, I shall let poor old Almond sleep the sleep of the just until the earliest crack of dawn. Then I shall wake him, have my Napier got ready—if that hasn't been done overnight—pay him, press an extra tip into his not unwilling palm, pack him off to England, home, and beauty, after which I shall romp back to the sleeping farmhouse on my own good car.
My story to Miss Randolph will be that while in Blois yesterday I heard from my master. He is called back to England in a great hurry, wants to leave his car, and would be delighted to let it out on hire at reasonable terms if driven by a good, responsible man—like me. I suppose I shall have to name a sum—say a louis a day—or she'll suspect some game.
She is sure to snatch at a chance, as a drowning man at a straw, and I pat myself on the back for my inspiration. I am looking forward to a new lease of life with the Napier.
The window grows grey; I must call Almond. How the Plan works out you shall hear in my next. Au revoir, then.
Your more than ever excited friend,
Jack Winston.
