The Counts Chauffeur | Page 3

for the Continent?"
"The day after to-morrow. I'm staying just now at the Cecil. We'll run
the car down to Folkestone, ship her across, and then go by Paris and
Aix to Monte Carlo first; afterwards we'll decide upon our itinerary.
Ever been to Monty?"
I replied in the negative. The prospect of going on the Riviera sounded
delightful.

After our late luncheon we ran back from Hitchin to London, but, not
arriving before lighting-up time, we had to turn on the head-lights
beyond Barnet. We drove straight to the fine garage on the
Embankment beneath the Cecil, and after I had put things square and
received orders for ten o'clock next day, I was preparing to go to my
lodgings in Bloomsbury to look through my kit in preparation for the
journey, when my employer suddenly exclaimed:
"Come up to the smoking-room a moment. I want to write a letter for
you to take to Boodle's in St. James's Street for me, if you will."
I followed him upstairs to the great tiled smoking-room overlooking the
Embankment, and as we entered, two well-dressed men -- Englishmen,
of aristocratic bearing -- rose from a table and shook him warmly by
the hand.
I noticed their quick, apprehensive look as they glanced at me as
though in inquiry, but my employer exclaimed:
"This is my new chauffeur, Ewart, an expert. Ewart, these are my
friends -- Sir Charles Blythe," indicating the elder man, "and Mr.
Henderson. These gentlemen will perhaps be with us sometimes, so
you had better know them."
The pair looked me up and down and smiled pleasantly. Sir Charles
was narrow-faced, about fifty, with a dark beard turning grey; his
companion was under thirty, a fair-haired, rather foppishly-dressed
young fellow, in a fashionable suit and a light fancy vest.
Then, as the Count went to the table to write, Sir Charles inquired
where we had been, and whether I had driven much on the Continent.
When the Count handed me the letter, I saw that he exchanged a
meaning glance with Sir Charles, but what it was intended to convey I
could not guess. I only know that, for a few seconds, I felt some vague
distrust of my new friends, and yet they treated me more as an equal
than as a mere chauffeur.

The Count's friends were certainly a merry, easy-going pair, yet
somehow I instinctively held them in suspicion. Whether it was on
account of the covert glance which Sir Charles shot across at my
employer, or whether there was something unusual about their manner,
I cannot tell. I am only aware that when I left the hotel I went on my
way in wonder.
Next day, at ten punctually, I ran the car from the Strand into the
courtyard of the hotel and pulled up at the restaurant entrance, so as to
be out of the way of the continuous cab traffic. The Count, however,
did not make his appearance until nearly half an hour later, and when
he did arrive he superintended the dispatch by cab of a quantity of
luggage which he told me he was sending forward by grande vitesse to
Monte Carlo.
After the four-wheeler had moved off, the hall-porter helped him on
with his big fur coat, and he, getting up beside me, told me to drive to
Piccadilly.
As we were crossing Trafalgar Square into Pall Mall, he turned to me,
saying:
"Remember, Ewart, your promise yesterday. If my actions -- I mean, if
you think I am a little peculiar sometimes, don't trouble your head
about it. You are paid to drive -- and paid well, I think. My affairs don't
concern you, do they?"
"Not in the least," I answered, nevertheless puzzled.
He descended at a tobacconist's in Bond Street, and bought a couple of
boxes of cigars, and then made several calls at shops, also visiting two
jewellers to obtain, he remarked, a silver photograph frame of a certain
size.
At Gilling's -- the third shop he tried -- he remained inside some little
time -- quite twenty minutes, I should think. As you know, it is in the
narrowest part of Bond Street, and the traffic was congested owing to
the road at the Piccadilly end being partially up.

As I sat in my place staring idly before me, and reflecting that I should
be so soon travelling due south over the broad, well-kept French roads,
and out of the gloom and dreariness of the English winter, I suddenly
became conscious of a familiar face in the crowd of hurrying
foot-passengers.
I glanced up quickly as a man bustled past. Was I mistaken? I probably
had been, but the thin, keen, bearded countenance was very much like
that of Sir Charles Blythe. But no. When I looked