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lord. When he arrives I shall write--Oh, here he is."
Viscount Medenham descended leisurely and lit a cigarette. Dale, the stoic, folded his arms and looked fixedly at the press of vehicles passing the end of the street. Vivid memories of Lord Medenham's chivalrous courtesy--his lordship's dashed tomfoolery he called it--warned him that life was about to assume new interests.
The boy messenger, summoned telephonically by a sympathetic maid-servant in a neighboring house, guessed that the gentleman standing on the pavement owned the "motor-car" to which he had been directed. Here were two cars, but the boy did not hesitate. He saluted.
"Messenger, sir," he said.
"This way," intervened Simmonds curtly.
"No. I want you," said Medenham. "You know Sevastopolo's, the cigarette shop in Bond Street?"
"Take this card there, and ask him to dispatch the order at once." Meanwhile he was writing: "Kindly send 1,000 Salonikas to 91 Cavendish Square."