"Wh—what—" she stammered. "Oh—I'm—so—glad. How—"
Kennedy said nothing. He was thoroughly enjoying her face.
"Don't you understand?" I explained, laughing merrily. "I admit that I didn't until that last minute in the stateroom on the boat when we didn't come back to wave a last good-bye. But all the care that Craig took in selecting the porters was the result of work he did yesterday, and the insistence with which he chose our travelling clothes had a deep-laid purpose."
She said nothing, and I continued.
"The change was made quickly in the stateroom. Kennedy's man threw on the coat and hat he wore, while Craig donned the rough clothes of the porter and added a limp and a wig. The same sort of exchange of clothes was made by me and Craig clapped a Van Dyck beard on my chin."
"I—I'm so glad," she repeated. "I didn't think you'd—"
She cut the sentence short, remembering her eyes and the photograph as we entered, and a deep blush crimsoned her face.
"Mum's the word," cautioned Kennedy, "You must smuggle us out of the house, some way."
. . . . . . . .
Kennedy lost no time in confirming the suspicions of his bolometer as to the cause of the death of the two innocent victims of the machinations of the Clutching Hand.