It was only ten, and as my arrangements were all made, I had time for
strolling--too much to suit my mood. The murmur of an automobile
preparing to take flight attracted me from a distance, for it seemed
that the voice had the cadence of a car I knew. I hastened my steps,
turned a corner, and there, in front of the Hotel de France's rival,
stood a fine motor, panting, quivering in eagerness to dart away.
It was a Mercedes, and if it were not Molly Winston's wedding-present
Mercedes, it was that Mercedes' twin. But there was a strange mushroom
in it.
I would have known Molly's mushroom among a thousand. It was small,
round, compact, and of a dark cream colour. This mushroom was flatter,
wider, more expansive, with an exceedingly slender stem; and in tint
it was of a pale silvery grey. It grew up straight and slim in the
tonneau of the car, all alone, unaccompanied by any similar growths,
or any guardian goblins; and several servants of the hotel were
grouped about, waiting to see it off.
I waited, too, sniffing adventure with the scent of petrol, and
interested in the resemblance to that good Dragon with which I had
been friends; but I was about to turn away at last when a form which
had evidently been squatting behind the car on the other side, rose to
its feet. It was that of Gotteland, and had he been a long-lost uncle
from Australia with his pockets crammed with wills in my favour, I
could not have been more delighted to see him.
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