“But that will exactly fit in with his scheme,” exclaimed Orme, heatedly. “He knows that, in the interests of our own country”—he hazarded this—“I must be at a certain place before midnight. He will use every means to delay me—even to charging me with theft.”
“What is that?” Bessie Wallingham’s voice broke in upon them. “Is anyone daring to accuse Bob Orme?”
In her long, gray silk motor-cloak, with the filmy chiffon veil bound about her hat, she startled them, like an apparition.
The spokesman explained. “His Excellency says that Mr. Orme has stolen some papers from him.”
“Then His Excellency is at fault,” said Bessie, promptly. “I vouch for Mr. Orme. He is Tom’s best friend, and Tom is one of the governors of the club. Come, Bob.”
She turned away decisively, and Orme recognized the advantage she had given him, and strode after her. From noises behind him, he gathered that the men were holding the minister back by main force.