Mary’s arms clasped him closer.
“Ah, John, John,” she said, “we must die together, dear.”
John stooped and kissed her.
Suddenly the door was opened and Deane entered. He wore a comically apologetic look, and carried an oblong metal vessel in his right hand.
“Excuse me,” he said. “There’s been—er—slight but very natural mistake. It wasn’t—er—exactly dynamite—it’s—er—a preserved-peach tin. That fool Painter——”
“Then we’re safe!” cried Mary.
“Yes, thank Heaven,” answered Deane fervently.
“Oh, John!” she cried.
Sir Roger, with a smile, retired and closed the door after him.
Downstairs Lady Deane and Miss Bussey, forgetful of their sufferings, were restoring Madame Painter to her senses; Painter was uncorking a bottle of champagne for Arthur Laing; Sir Roger Deane was talking in a low voice and persuasive tones to an imposing representative of the police. “What passed between them is unknown; possibly only words, possibly something else; at any rate, after a time, Deane smiled, the great man smiled responsively, saluted, and disappeared, murmuring something about Anglais, milords, and drtles. The precise purport of his reflections could not be distinctly understood by those in the house, for civility made him inarticulate, but when he was safely outside he looked at a piece of crisp paper in his hand, then, with his thumb pointing over his shoulder, he gave an immense shrug, and exclaimed: