CHAPTER III

EIGHT-THIRTY

They stood in silence, listening to the footsteps of Marcelle on the

parquet floor of the passage. The outer door was opened, and a murmur

of voices reached them indistinctly.

"I have had the honor of knowing you not much longer than ten minutes,

Miss Grandison," said Curtis, and the strong, vibrant note in his voice

might well have won any woman's confidence, "but if you feel that you

can trust me, and my help is of value, please command me, that is, if

your enemies are men."

She rewarded him with one swift look of gratitude.

"If it is my father, both you and I are powerless," she whispered.

"And the other would not dare come without him."

A discreet tap on the door heralded Marcelle. That sprightly young

person, despite her Parisian name, was unquestionably American in every

inch of her self-possessed neatness; she smiled at Curtis while giving

him a message.

"The driver of your taxi has sent up the hall-porter to ask if you wish

him to wait any longer," she said.

Not often, even in comedy, has the mountain heaved and brought forth

such a ridiculous mouse. Curtis did actually laugh; even his

distraught companion tittered in sheer nervous reaction.

"Please tell him to wait, and not to worry about the fare," said

Curtis. "I suppose," he added, turning to Miss Grandison, "the man put

me down as a newcomer, and, taught by previous experience, thought it

best to warn me how the register mounts."

The effort to restore their rather strained relations to a sedate level

was well meant, but the girl's downcast eyes and tremulous lips

revealed a state of piteous uncertainty and confusion that was more

distressing to Curtis than anything which had gone before.

Nevertheless, reminding himself that precious time was being wasted, he

determined to seek a full explanation of circumstances which at present

savored of Bedlam.

"Now that the fears of the taxi-driver have been stilled," he said

cheerfully, "suppose you and I sit down and discuss matters like

sensible people. I am an American, Miss Grandison, and, although long

an exile from my own country, I appreciate the national characteristic

of plain speech. Let me explain that I am not married, that I have no

ties which prevent free action on my part, and that nothing on earth

will stop me from helping a woman who pins her faith to me. With that

preamble, as the lawyers say, I purpose taking off this heavy overcoat,

and listening in comfort to anything you may wish to tell. Or, if you

are afraid of being disturbed, what do you say if we go to some

restaurant, where, perhaps, we may eat, and, at any rate, talk without

fear of interference?"

"I think we had better remain here," said the girl sadly, though it was

plain that Curtis's offer of protection during the alarm created by the

hall-porter's errand had advanced him a long way in her esteem. "There

are only two persons living who dare pretend to exercise control over

my actions, and if they have arrived in New York this evening I have

good reason to believe that I cannot escape them."

"Are they coming here from Europe?" asked Curtis quickly, for his

active mind was already groping toward certain dimly defined

conclusions.

"Yes."

"Could they have been fellow-passengers of mine on the _Lusitania_?"

"No, they are on board the _Switzerland_."

He smiled, and discarded that fateful overcoat.

"Then set your mind at rest," he said, with the nonchalance of a man

who has shelved a major difficulty. "The _Switzerland_ has broken

down. We passed her early to-day. She is staggering into port with

engines partly disabled and she cannot possibly reach New York before

to-morrow morning."

"Are you quite sure?" came the eager demand.

"Well, there is nothing so uncertain as the sea but a young friend of

mine said that those facts were signaled by wireless, and, to some

extent, they governed his own movements. I myself can assure you that

the _Switzerland_ was limping along like a lame duck at 8 A.M. to-day."

"Ah, thank Heaven for that small mercy!" murmured the girl. For a few

seconds she busied herself with gloves, veil, and hat-pins, and Curtis

happened to glance at the overcoat, which he had placed over the back

of a chair. To his dismay, he noticed that one of the sleeves, the

left, was bespattered with blood, but he contrived to refold the

garment so as to conceal this grewsome record of a tragedy before his

hostess had divested herself of hat and gloves.

Then they seemed to survey each other with a new interest, for Curtis

was a good figure of a man in evening dress, and Hermione Grandison

became, if possible, more attractive to the male eye because of the

wealth of brown hair which crowned her smooth forehead, almost hid her

tiny ears, and clustered low at the back of her slender, well-shaped

neck. Where the rays of light caught the coiled tresses they had the

sheen of burnished gold. In the shadow they commingled those

voluptuous tints by which the magic of Rubens has immortalized one fair

woman, Isabella Brant, in every gallery of note throughout the world.

Hermione it was, now, who first broke the silence which had reigned in

the room for a minute or more. Seating herself on the opposite side of

a square table, and resting her elbows thereon, she propped her pretty

chin on her small, clenched fists, and gazed fearlessly at Curtis.

"You must think me a very extraordinary person," she began.

"Let that pass," said he, with a smile, wise in the knowledge that the

present was no hour for compliments.

"But I am, and I know it, not because I differ so greatly from other

girls of my own age, but owing to the misery which has been my portion.

The one man in the world who should wish to secure my happiness has

become my persecutor. I am here to-night because I have run away from

my father, and I have used every lawful means to get married--under

conditions framed by myself, of course--in order to escape from a

hateful marriage which he has planned."

She hesitated, for a reflective frown was deepening on Curtis's face.

"Now you recognize my name!" she cried. "Have you seen anything about

me in the newspapers?"

"You are Lady Hermione Grandison?" he said, meeting her watchful eyes

frankly.

"Yes."

"Daughter of the Earl of Valletort?"

"Yes."

"And about a month ago you were reported missing from some apartment in

the Rue de Rivoli, on the eve of your marriage with--with some

Hungarian prince?"

"Yes, Count Ladislas Vassilan."

"So you came here--with Monsieur Jean de Courtois?"

"I brought him here, and paid him for his services. I have no desire

to minimize his friendly aid, but I was buying the security of his name

as my husband, and he had given me his guarantee that, when it suited

my purposes, he would help me to dissolve the marriage."

Curtis disregarded a perceptible coldness in her tone. He was too busy

sweeping away the mists.

"What sort of guarantee?" he asked.

"His promise, his word of honor."

"Was he--a gentleman?"

"Not socially, but in every other sense. He was my music-master in

Paris."

Curtis put his next question hurriedly. He was anxious to avoid the

least suspicion on the girl's part that he might be crediting Jean de

Courtois with motives which would not pass muster before a jury of

cool-headed men so readily as they seemed to have satisfied an

impetuous and frightened girl.

"How did your father ascertain that you were in New York?" he said.

"Oh, it seems that a certain period of residence was necessary before a

marriage license could be obtained, and it was unavoidable that my name

should be found out by those whom he hired to track me."

"But why were you not married under an assumed name?"

"Monsieur de Courtois assured me that such a thing would render the

marriage invalid."

"He was wrong," said Curtis dryly. "It subjected you to some small

legal penalty, but you would be just as effectually married if you

called yourself Jane Smith."

"I really think you are mistaken. Monsieur de Courtois made the most

exhaustive inquiries."

"Were you not leaving the ceremony to the latest possible hour?" went

on Curtis, divided now between the fear of shocking her and the

paramount importance of learning the truth about the curiously

scrupulous Jean de Courtois.

"We were to have been married two days ago, but the license was stolen."

"So it is rather by accident than otherwise that Lord Valletort and

Count Vassilan, who, I take it, is with your father on board the

_Switzerland_, have not arrived in time to prevent the marriage--that

is, if they were able to prevent it?"

"No, I think not. Poor Monsieur de Courtois was here this afternoon,

and he was jubilant because we had plenty of time, provided we were

married this evening."

"Where was the ceremony to take place?"

"I--I don't know. I left everything in the hands of Monsieur de

Courtois."

A very real and active doubt of the Frenchman's good faith was

beginning to peep up in Curtis's mind. Rather to account for the

thoughtful lines on his forehead than for any reason connected with the

license, he took that document from the table, where it had lain since

he produced it, and affected to examine it judiciously. Therefore, he

was really surprised when he found an endorsement on the back which

read;--"Issued in duplicate. This license is not available if the

original has been used."

"Oh!" he said, and the monosyllable might mean much or little.

"What have you discovered there?" said the girl, rising and coming

nearer, to stoop over the table and scrutinize the paper with him.

"The original license certainly seems to have disappeared," said

Curtis, who had suddenly become aware that the propinquity of a

charming woman was one of the subtle joys of life.

"Ah me!" sighed Lady Hermione, straightening her supple form, and

turning slightly aside.

There was a little pause. Curtis, whose enunciation was usually

distinguished by its ease and clearness, found some slight difficulty

in resuming the conversation. He resolved firmly that, in future, he

would eschew liqueurs after champagne.

"I hate to act the role of inquisitor, Lady Hermione," he said, rather

huskily as to the first few words, "but would you mind telling me why

you are so opposed to Count Ladislas Vassilan as a husband?"

"First, because I do not want to marry any man; secondly, because Count

Vassilan is a vile person, both in appearance and repute; and thirdly,

because my father is only urging this match to serve his own ends. Our

unhappy history is so widely known that there is no harm in telling you

that my mother and he were separated during many years, and when mamma

died three years ago she left all her money to me, absolutely under my

control. I was young, only seventeen, but I managed to retain it,

though goodness only knows how, and this horrid Hungarian prince wants

it--to help him to regain a throne, he says--but I don't believe him."

"You could not be forced into matrimony," said Curtis, with a slow

gravity that was lost on his dejected hearer.

"You cannot have lived in France, or you would not say that," was the

bitter answer. "Everyone, everything, was opposed to me. I was a

minor, and one against many. The laws seemed to conspire with my

relatives to force me into the power of a beast. . . . Yes, it sounds

horrid on my lips, but the man is really a beast," and she stamped an

emphatic foot on the floor; Curtis could see the white circles over the

tiny knuckles as her hands clenched in protest. They were such pretty

hands, too. He had often smiled at the notion of a man kissing a

woman's hand, but it did not strike him now as a specially foolish act.

"Let us forget him," he agreed.

"But how can I forget him? He will be here to-morrow. Once my father

and he have found me, what am I to do? Die, I suppose! . . . I would

rather die than marry Count Vassilan, and again I would rather die than

figure in a vulgar brawl, such as the newspapers would take a delight

in. My father is well aware of that, and will play on my

weakness. . . . B-but--I may--be able--to defeat them--in another way."

Curtis stood up. The sound of her grief maddened him, and he threw

prudence to the winds.

"The first reason you gave was the most convincing one, so far as you

personally are concerned, Lady Hermione," he said, making the effort of

his life to speak calmly. "You said you did not want to marry any man."

"Y-yes, it is true. I d-don't."

"Still, there is only one way out of your trouble. You must marry

me--to-night."

The girl whirled round on him; her eyes were glistening with tears, but

her face was radiant.

"Do you really mean that?" she cried.

"I do."

"Then never let anyone tell me that the age of chivalry has passed."

"I fancy it has just begun," he said, though the jest nearly choked him.

"But why should you do this kind and gracious thing for a girl you have

been acquainted with only a brief half-hour? You see, I understand

that you are a gentleman--I realize that, although I have plenty of

money, I cannot offer to recompense you as I did that poor Jean de

Courtois."

"No," he agreed grimly.

"Don't you grasp what this one-sided bargain implies? You are merely

to pose as my husband until Count Vassilan leaves me in peace?"

"Yes."

"And then we are to obtain a divorce?"

"You are, not I."

"Isn't that a distinction without a difference?"

"Perhaps. The fact remains that I shall agree to all your terms save

one--you, of course, can divorce me at your own pleasure. The

procedure is simple in some States of the Union."

For no obvious reason, Lady Hermione blushed. For an instant, indeed,

she was somewhat disconcerted, and the vivacity fled from her mobile

face.

"Perhaps, Mr. Curtis, I have no right to let you make this sacrifice,"

she said, a trifle coldly. "It would be different if I could repay you

in some way. Surely, although you may be a wealthy man, there will be

expenses--you will, at least, lose a good deal of time, which you could

occupy to better purpose?"

"I have given myself twelve months' respite from railway construction

in China. I really don't see how I could pass a part of my holiday

better than as your husband."

"In idle make-believe?"

"Every decent man has the heart of a child, and make-believe is reality

to some children."

"But, even though in my need I take you at your word, how can a

marriage become possible?"

"Here is the license. For the purposes of the ceremony I become Jean

de Courtois. By singular chance, the change of name is not such a

wrench as it might be if I didn't happen to be called John D. Curtis."

Still she hesitated. Somehow, becoming Mrs. John D. Curtis impressed

her as a far more serious undertaking than purchasing the right to pose

as Madame de Courtois.

"We don't even know where to get married," she faltered.

"Given a license and a comparatively small sum of money, New York

abounds with facilities."

"Are you sure the ceremony will be legal if you appear under a false

name?"

"Quite positive."

"Can you be punished if it is found out?"

"I'll run the risk."

After a fateful pause, which would have been considerably curtailed had

Lady Hermione Grandison been vouchsafed the least premonition of events

in which the night was still rich, she held out her hand.

"I can only thank you from the depths of my heart, Mr. Curtis," she

said. "I must trust someone, and I do trust you most implicitly."

"You will never regret it, Lady Hermione," he said reverently. He

wondered whether or not this was an occasion on which hand-kissing was

permissible, but contented himself with returning the friendly pressure

of the girl's fingers--retaining them, in fact, for a second or two.

"I have your word of honor that you will regard the ceremony as a

formal compact between us two?" she murmured, unaccountably shy, and

seemingly half-afraid that he meant to clasp her in his arms then and

there.

"You have," he said, relinquishing her hand. Perhaps, at that instant,

Puck sighed, and wondered what would have happened had this husband

only in name strained to his heart the bride whom he had vowed not to

embrace. But Curtis did nothing of the sort. His tone became

intensely practical and businesslike, and he glanced at his watch.

"It is half-past eight," he said. "How soon will you be ready to come

with me and hunt up a minister?"

"Now--I am ready now. Marcelle and I were waiting for--for that

unhappy Monsieur de Courtois when you arrived. It sounds rather

dreadful, Mr. Curtis, to talk of marriage, even as a mere means of

cheating the law, at a moment when a man is already lying dead for my

sake. Please don't consider me, but draw back, if you want to, before

it is too late."

"My grandfather commanded the Fifth Cavalry during the Civil War, Lady

Hermione."

"Pray, how does that interesting fact affect us?"

"It is well-known that the Fifth never retreat, and the habit has

become a family tradition."

He pocketed the license, and picked up the overcoat, meaning to put it

on in the hall while her ladyship was rearranging her hat. But

Marcelle was waiting there, hatted, and gloved.

"Have you fixed things?" she whispered breathlessly.

"We have," said Curtis.

"Goodness me! But I guessed it. Nobody can resist her, can they?"

"I didn't try," said Curtis, wriggling into the coat sideways.

"Poor _dear_. She has had a time. What a piece of luck I met her the

day she landed."

Curtis had no opportunity to inquire just what Marcelle meant, for Lady

Hermione had joined them. Sedulously keeping that tell-tale sleeve out

of sight, Curtis took the lead, and opened the door, which Marcelle

closed and locked.

While they were waiting for the elevator, Curtis fathomed Marcelle's

stock of information as to the addresses of neighboring ministers of

the Protestant Episcopal Church. It was nil. He appealed to the

attendant when the elevator came up, but that worthy thoughtfully

tickled his scalp under his cap, and suggested a consultation with the

taxi-driver. Indeed, to further the quest, he went with them to the

door, and, while Lady Hermione and Marcelle seated themselves in the

cab, the three men discussed the religious problem on the sidewalk.

"Ministers don't use taxis much in N' York, sir," commented the driver.

"Fact is, they mostly can't afford 'em, but I do happen to know where

one old gentleman lives, an' he's sure to be home, because he's

crippled something cruel with the rheumatiz."

"Is it far?" demanded Curtis.

"Three blocks away, in 56th Street, near Seventh Avenue. Lives next

door to the church, he does."

"Take us there," and Curtis entered the vehicle, which whirled out of

sight in the peculiarly downright fashion of the automobile.

The elevator man looked after it, and tickled another section of his

scalp.

"I'd a notion she was going to marry that Frenchman," he said to

himself. "Of course, it's her business, an' not mine, but of the two

I'd take a chance with this new fellar. An' it's odd, too, that they

shouldn't know where to go, unless they mean to pick up Froggy on the

road. Well, wimmen is queer creetures, they are, sure, an' the English

ones are just as queer as the Americans. Not that Miss Grandison ain't

a peach wherever she comes from, an' I hope she'll be happy, night an'

day till the time comes when she don't care if it snows."

He glanced up at the sky, rolled a cigarette, and, before returning

indoors, sniffed a keen wind which was rustling the last crisp leaves

in Central Park. The street was quiet, and no one was stirring in the

mansion.

"I'm not likely to be wanted for another minnit or two," he said, "so

I'll just give the furnace a shake-out. Unless I'm mistaken, there's a

frost coming."

Had he prophesied a hurricane he would not have been far wrong, but it

was entirely in keeping with the other remarkable developments of a

night already noteworthy for its strange happenings that the elevator

attendant at No. 1000 59th Street should have chosen the next few

minutes to attend to the steam-heating arrangements in the basement.

There is little to be gained, however, from speculation as to the

probable outcome of conditions which did not obtain, and the trivial

space of time which was demanded for the shaking-out and re-coaling of

a furnace was largely responsible for John D. Curtis and Hermione

Beauregard Grandison being made man and wife.

Curiously enough, the tying of this particular knot was facilitated by

the fact that the clergyman was hale mentally but decrepit physically,

and, as might be expected, resented the conclusion, long ago arrived at

by his friends, that he was unfitted for work. He burgeoned with

delight when a servant announced that two young people wanting to get

married were waiting in the vestibule; he hobbled out of the library,

where he was poring over an essay on the Sixtine text of the

Septuagint, and ushered them into a parlor. The room was not

well-lighted, because of some defect in the electric installation, but

the old gentleman--"Rev. Thomas J. Hughes" was the legend on the

door-plate--bustled about in the liveliest way, and talked most

cheerfully.

"Ah, young folk--as usual, leaving things to the last moment, and then

in a desperate hurry," he chirped. "Got the license--yes? Complied

with all the formalities? Of course, of course. Where's the ring?

You've _not_ forgotten the ring?"

Curtis and Hermione looked at each other in blank dismay; even

Marcelle's aplomb yielded under this unforeseen strain, and her

agitation showed itself in a gasping murmur:

"Oh dear! What shall we do now?"

Mr. Hughes positively chortled over their discomfiture. He limped to a

secretaire, and opened a drawer.

"See what it is to have a long experience in these affairs," he cried.

"Do you fancy you are the first couple who failed to provide a ring?

Ah me! When I was quite a boy in the cloth I learnt the necessity of

keeping rings in stock, so a jeweler friend of mind replenishes my

store, and, when I sell one, I apply a small profit to a favorite

charity of mine. The wearing of a wedding ring has no legal

significance, but it is a fine old custom, and should be preserved.

Among the Romans the ring was a pledge, _pignus_, that the betrothal

contract would be fulfilled. Pliny tells us that the ring, or circle,

was of iron, but the ladies speedily determined that it should be of

gold, and the Church went a step farther in recognizing it as a symbol

of matrimony. Hence, perhaps, the Episcopal ring, and even the Ring of

the Fisherman itself, though some authorities hold that signets--Ah,

yes," for Curtis had intimated politely that the hour was growing late,

"if the lady will say which of these rings fits; they are fifteen

dollars each--cheaper, I believe, than you can buy them in Fifth

Avenue. . . . Ah, _that_ one? Very well. Now, as to the form of

service?"

"The full marriage rite," said Curtis.

"Precisely, just what I would have suggested. I adhere to the

time-honored formula. Now, let me examine the license--my eyes fail me

a little, but I take the utmost pains to be accurate, because accuracy

is of the greatest importance. . . . Yes, yes, State of New York--what

are the names?"

"John D. Curtis and Hermione Beauregard Grandison," said Curtis. His

tone was so calm and self-confident that even the prospective bride was

deaf for a moment to the vital significance of the words. Then she

whispered tremulously:

"Are you not making some mistake?"

"No," he replied, looking her straight in the eyes.

The minister, whose ears partook of the defects in his other faculties,

caught the word "mistake."

"This is no place for mistakes, my dear young lady," he said, "A nice

young couple like you should only require to be married once in your

lives. Take my advice, and stick to one another in sunshine and in

storm, and you shall be blessed even unto the fourth generation. . . .

Now, all is in order. . . . Is this your witness?" and he nodded

affably toward Marcelle. "Shall we have one other? William Jenkins,

my factotum, has been privileged to assist on many such

occasions. . . . Wil-li-am!"

He raised his voice, and a wizened little man appeared suddenly, having

evidently waited outside the door until he was summoned.

Then, with due ritual, John Delancy Curtis and Hermione Beauregard

Grandison were joined in the bonds of wedlock, and, by the time Mr.

Hughes had completed the ceremony, he had pronounced their names so

often, and was so accustomed to their form and sound, that when he

filled in the certificate annexed to the license, "John D. Curtis"

appeared therein in place of "Jean de Courtois."

Hermione was in a pitiable state of suppressed excitement before the

ordeal was concluded. The solemnity and impressiveness of the vows she

was taking disturbed the serenity with which she had schooled herself

to regard the marriage as "make-believe." She was frightened at her

own daring. A dread that the tie she was so lightly assuming might be

harder to undo than she had contemplated was fluttering her heart and

almost paralyzing her limbs. But Curtis was unemotional as an icicle;

or, at any rate, he looked it, which was all that the half-hysterical

girl by his side could ascertain by an occasional timid glance. The

fact lent her a sort of courage to persevere to the end, and she signed

her maiden name for the last time with a numb confidence in the man

whom she had, so to speak, bargained for as a husband in an emergency.

Curtis did not fail to note that the aged clergyman's handwriting was

crabbed and palsied as his bent frame. None could tell, for certain,

whether he wrote "Jean" or "John," "Courtois" or "Curtis," though,

indeed, the balance of probability inclined to the latter of the two

names, Christian and surname, since those were indubitably what he

meant to write.

Then, having stated his fee, and been paid for the ring, he handed

Hermione a copy of the certificate.

"Treasure that during all your days, Mrs. Curtis," he said. "May it be

a charter of lasting happiness and content!"

Mrs. Curtis! Another shock! Hermione felt that she would scream if

there were many more such. And the pressure of the little gold ring on

the third finger of her left hand was becoming intolerable. Iron, it

used to be, said the minister, and a band of iron it seemed to have

become since this man whom she had taken, so completely on trust had

placed it there.

On the way out, Curtis tipped Jenkins, tipped him so lavishly that a

queer little voice squeaked from a queer little face:

"Thank you, sir. Fair weather to both you and your wife, and a safe

berth when you drop anchor!"

So Jenkins had been a sailor, for none but a shell-back would put his

good wishes in such nautical lingo.

"I have just finished one long voyage, but seem to have begun another,"

said Curtis to his "wife." He accompanied the words with a laugh, and

was really talking for the sake of breaking an awkward silence. They

were descending a few steps from the door, and he noticed that a

private automobile was speeding down the street from the same direction

as the taxi had taken. It swung close to the curb, and was pulled up

barely a yard short of the waiting cab, whose engine the driver was

starting with the crank.

A shout came from the interior, and a man leaped out. The street was

rather dark in that part, but Hermione recognized the stranger

instantly.

"Count Vassilan!" she cried, and the fear in her voice thrilled Curtis

to the core.

Almost as quickly, the man now running along the sidewalk knew that a

long chase had ended, or he fancied that it had ended, which is not

always the same thing.

"Here we are, Valletort!" he shouted. "Got 'em, by ----! You see

after Hermione! I'll attend to this d--d Frenchman!"

Curtis gently disengaged the clasp of a tiny hand on his arm, a clasp

which was eloquent of a woman's sore need and complete trust. He

stepped forward to meet the Count, a stoutly built, heavy man, who had

reckoned on closing with an undersized Frenchman. There was no time to

rectify mistakes. Curtis met his rival's onset with a beautiful

half-arm jab on the nose. Scientifically, it was perfect, since the

blow was delivered at the back of the Count's head with complete

disregard of intervening tissues, and its recipient went down like one

of those pins which succumbed so regularly to the ball bowled by a

colossal fist in the Broadway electric sign. The only difference was

that the pin fell noiselessly, whereas Count Vassilan roared like a

bull in anguish.

In the next instant Curtis, who, for a mild-mannered person, appeared

to possess a singularly close acquaintance with the ethics of a street

row, sprang at the automobile, pushed back a man who was getting out,

slammed the door, seized the speed levers, and bent them hopelessly

with a violent tug.

A swearing chauffeur fumbled in the seat, but was in no real hurry to

alight, because he had noted the Count's _debacle_, and Curtis ran to

the two cowering women.

"In with you!" he said cheerily, adding, with a grin at the driver:

"Fifty for you if we win clear. Now, be a sport!"

Of course, the driver of a taxi would be a sport. In five minutes he

pulled up somewhere in Madison Avenue, and, leaning back and twisting

his neck, bawled:

"Where to _now_, sir?"