George hid her. He did it, too, without wasting precious time byasking questions. In a situation which might well have thrown thequickest-witted of men off his balance, he acted with promptitude,intelligence and despatch. The fact is, George had for years beenan assiduous golfer; and there is no finer school for teachingconcentration and a strict attention to the matter in hand. Fewcrises, however unexpected, have the power to disturb a man who hasso conquered the weakness of the flesh as to have trained himselfto bend his left knee, raise his left heel, swing his arms well outfrom the body, twist himself into the shape of a corkscrew and usethe muscle of the wrist, at the same time keeping his head stilland his eye on the ball. It is estimated that there aretwenty-three important points to be borne in mind simultaneouslywhile making a drive at golf; and to the man who has mastered theart of remembering them all the task of hiding girls in taxicabs ismere child's play. To pull down the blinds on the side of thevehicle nearest the kerb was with George the work of a moment. Thenhe leaned out of the centre window in such a manner as completelyto screen the interior of the cab from public view.

　　"Thank you so much," murmured a voice behind him. It seemed to comefrom the floor.

　　"Not at all," said George, trying a sort of vocal chip-shot out ofthe corner of his mouth, designed to lift his voice backwards andlay it dead inside the cab.

　　He gazed upon Piccadilly with eyes from which the scales hadfallen. Reason told him that he was still in Piccadilly. Otherwiseit would have seemed incredible to him that this could be the samestreet which a moment before he had passed judgment upon and foundflat and uninteresting. True, in its salient features it hadaltered little. The same number of stodgy-looking people moved upand down. The buildings retained their air of not having had a bathsince the days of the Tudors. The east wind still blew. But,though superficially the same, in reality Piccadilly had alteredcompletely. Before it had been just Piccadilly. Now it was a goldenstreet in the City of Romance, a main thoroughfare of Bagdad, oneof the principal arteries of the capital of Fairyland. Arose-coloured mist swam before George's eyes. His spirits, so lowbut a few moments back, soared like a good niblick shot out of thebunker of Gloom. The years fell away from him till, in an instant,from being a rather poorly preserved, liverish greybeard ofsixty-five or so, he became a sprightly lad of twenty-one in aworld of springtime and flowers and laughing brooks. In otherwords, taking it by and large, George felt pretty good. Theimpossible had happened; Heaven had sent him an adventure, and hedidn't care if it snowed.

　　It was possibly the rose-coloured mist before his eyes thatprevented him from observing the hurried approach of a faultlesslyattired young man, aged about twenty-one, who during George'spreparations for ensuring privacy in his cab had been galloping inpursuit in a resolute manner that suggested a well-dressedbloodhound somewhat overfed and out of condition. Only when thisperson stopped and began to pant within a few inches of his facedid he become aware of his existence.