“Did he do that?”
“Yes, he did just that.”
“Maybe he wanted to get rid of you,” suggested Selden with a chuckle. “But sit down, Scott. Sit down, the rest of you, if you can find chairs. Now let’s have the story.”
“My story,” said Scott, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead, “is simply this. I came down here partly to get a rest, partly to interview old Clemenceau when he gets back from India, and I expected to have a few days just to loaf around. But this noon I get a telegram from Lawson asking if I wake or if I sleep, and outlining that beat you put across. After I had cooled off a little, I put on my hat and hunted up the villa where the king lives. There I found these boys kicking their heels outside the gates and discussing a polite little note which the king’s secretary had just brought out to the effect that there was nothing to be added to your story of yesterday evening, and that he was very busy and must beg to be excused, but would be happy to see us at six o’clock. He was busy all right—a blind man could see that!” Scott added impartially.
“Busy doing what?” Selden queried.
“Busy receiving all the diplomats in Nice—to say nothing of the shady characters from various down-and-out circles—all the birds of prey along the Riviera.”
“He was letting them in?”
“A good many got past the gates. How much farther they got I don’t know. Old Buckton, the British consul, came out while I was there, red as a turkey-cock and grinning all over; and our own ineffable Hartley-Belleville, who couldn’t have had any possible business there, but has to be in on everything!”
“Well, and then what?” asked Selden.
“Well—some of these fellows represent evening papers, and couldn’t wait till six o’clock, and we sent in a round-robin pointing this out. And what do you think old Pietro did? He sent out your address and referred us to you! Fierce, wasn’t it? Well, we swore awhile, and then we tumbled into some cars and rushed over here. Now stand and deliver!”