VIII
THE HIGH HAND
Evidently his first move toward departure was signalled; for as he passed out through L'Abbaye's doors the carriage-porter darted forward and saluted.
"Monsieur Lanyarr'?"
"Yes?"
"Monsieur's car is waiting."
"Indeed?" Lanyard surveyed briefly a handsome black limousine that, at pause beside the curb, was champing its bits in the most spirited fashion. Then he smiled appreciatively. "All the same, I thank you for the compliment," he said, and forthwith tipped the porter.
But before entrusting himself to this gratuitous conveyance, he put himself to the trouble of inspecting the chauffeur—a capable-looking mechanic togged out in a rich black livery which, though relieved by a vast amount of silk braiding, was like the car guiltless of any sort of insignia.
"I presume you know where I wish to go, my man?"
The chauffeur touched his cap: "But naturally, monsieur."
"Then take me there, the quickest way you know."
Nodding acknowledgement of the porter's salute, Lanyard sank gratefully back upon uncommonly luxurious
