George Lomax unwraps the package, slits up the oil-silk inside it, burrows into further wrapping. For a moment he holds something on the palm of his hand—then quickly shrouds it once more in cotton wool.
He clears his throat.
“At this auspicious minute,” he begins, with the clear delivery of the practised speaker.
Lord Caterham beats a precipitate retreat. On the terrace he finds his daughter.
“Bundle, is that car of yours in order?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Then take me up to town in it immediately. I’m going abroad at once—today.”
“But, father—”
“Don’t argue with me, Bundle. George Lomax told me when he arrived this morning that he was anxious to have a few words with me privately on a matter of the utmost delicacy. He added that the king of Timbuktu was arriving in London shortly. I won’t go through it again, Bundle, do you hear? Not for fifty George Lomaxes! If Chimneys is so valuable to the nation, let the nation buy it. Otherwise I shall sell it to a syndicate and they can turn it into an hotel.”
“Where is Codders now?”
Bundle is rising to the situation.
“At the present minute,” replied Lord Caterham, looking at his watch, “he is good for at least fifteen minutes about the Empire.”