“But you won’t let the thing go through, surely?”
“What’s the King of Portugal to me, and what do I care whether his name’s Carlos or Miguel?”
“Well then, tell mademoiselle what’s going on and get her to make a bolt of it on the Stella to-morrow, and leave word behind you and queer the plan that way.”
“There are several reasons against that, but one’s enough. She wouldn’t leave her mother to bear the brunt of things, her brother’s up to the eyes in it, and if she did bolt, she’d be under the charge all her life long and her flight would be accepted as proof of guilt.”
“Well, I give it up then,” he exclaimed with a shrug.
“But I don’t. I can’t. I’ve got to queer the thing somehow and make certain of mademoiselle’s safety. And I’ve got to do it off my own bat. Wait a bit, wait a bit,” I exclaimed after some minutes’ thought. “I’ve got an idea coming. By the lord-knows-who, I believe it would be possible. Let’s go over that business again. He lands from the launch, goes into the shed—there are two sheds, I remember—he goes out with his two friends, the coachman sees him and under pretence of the horses turning restive, backs the carriage past the corner, the two friends turn back. I wonder if both sheds have doors at the back. I expect so.”
“Is that Greek you’re muttering?” broke in Burroughs.
“Stand up, Jack, let’s have a look at you.”
He got up and I laughed as I looked him over. “Wait a bit, take your coat off,” and I plunged into my cabin and fished out a thick tweed shooting coat and a soft felt hat. “Here, put these on, quick.”
He did so, muttering: “Is this a pantomime rehearsal?”