Slyne, cavalier to the verge of rudeness, finally bought the big scarlet car, which the other almost forced upon him, for about half its market value, and paid for it there and then, in the new French notes which had almost been burning a hole in his pocket since he had left the Crédit Lyonnais office--so eager was he to be off on his last forlorn hope of winning Sallie.
"If you had allowed me only a few hours longer, I could have got you twice that amount," said the disappointed salesman in a stage aside to the seller as he counted over his own diminished commission. But the fat man merely bestowed on him a look of contemptuous annoyance, and, having signed the receipt Slyne required, tucked away in an empty pocket-book the balance of the crisply-rustling bills he had just received.
Even then he did not appear to know what next to do with himself. For, having glanced at his watch, he gave vent to a grunt of disgust, and hung on his heel undecidedly, after making a move to go.
"It's only about a hundred miles to Monaco, isn't it?" Slyne asked the salesman; and was answered in the affirmative.
The fat man gasped and choked for a moment, and then spoke again, with more confidence: a change due, perhaps, to the improvement in his finances.
"Pardon me, sir," said he, "but--if you're going that way, I wonder--It would be a most tremendous favour to me, and I haven't haggled over giving you the best of our bargain. The train's just gone, and--"
Slyne, chin in air, once more looked him over appraisingly, as he stammered and hesitated; and was very much disposed to cut him adrift without more ado. But some indefinable impulse, some feeling that here was a bird of a feather very sadly astray, caused him to alter his mind. "I'll be glad to give you a lift," he said, more graciously, "if you're ready to start now. But I can't wait."
The fat man's face lighted up again. "My luck's on the mend at last!" he declared. "I'm in as great a hurry as you can be, sir. I'm more than obliged to you for your courtesy. May I offer you my card?"
Slyne glanced at the slip of pasteboard conferred upon him while the car was being shifted out of the showroom into the street, where his elaborate chauffeur was in waiting. And, "Jump in, Mr. Jobling," he requested with unconcealed coldness as he himself took the wheel, relegating the chauffeur to a back seat. It ruffled his self-satisfied mood of the moment more than a little to learn that the fat man in the fur coat was in fact a London solicitor. With the law in any shape or form Jasper Slyne wanted nothing whatever to do, and especially at such a juncture. He was already repenting his ill-timed politeness.