"I can't say," replied Dr. Kyle, chuckling. "However, my inforrmant distinctly heard the girl's scream when set upon. My inforrmant declares that some scoundrelly dastard approached the poor girrul by telling her of his adventures while hunting big game in Africa. Weel, weel, then, that he offered her an emerald brrooch worth a fabulous sum. But, failing in his foul design, the rrascally skellum struck her over the head with a bottle o' whisky… "
"Great — Caesar's — ghost!" said Warren, his eyeballs slightly distended. "You — you didn't hear any names mentioned in the business, did you?"
"My inforrmant made no secret of it," Dr. Kyle answered philosophically. "She said the abandoned wretch and seducer was either Captain Whistler or Lord Sturton."
"And this woman's story is all over the boat?" asked Morgan.
"Oh, it will be," said Kyle, still philosophically. "It will be."
Dr. Kyle continued to talk on affably while the others attacked breakfast; and Morgan wondered what would be the ultimate version of the tale that would be humming through the Queen Victoria by midday. Evidently Dr. Kyle had not found any emeralds. There remained only the stony-faced Mr. Perrigord and his monocled wife. Well? The ship's miniature newspaper lay beside his plate, and he glanced over it between deep draughts of coffee, his eye slid over what appeared to be an article or essay on the back page, stopped, and returned to it. It was headed "renaissance du theatre," and under it appeared, "By Mr. Leslie Perrigord, reprinted by permission of the author from the Sunday "Times" of Oct. 25, 1932."
Skirling notes of harps celestial [began this effusion, with running start] sweeping one old reviewer, malgre lui, counterclockwise from his fauteuil, while nuances so subtle danced and slithered, reminding one of Bernhardt. Will you say, "Has old Perrigord gone off his chump this Sunday?" But what is one to say of this performance of M. Jules Fortinbras, which I journeyed to Soho to see? As Balzac once said to Victor Hugo, "Je suis etonne, sale chameau, je suis bouleverse." (Moliere would have said it better.) A thrilling performance, if that is consolation to the poor British public, but why speak of that? For sheer splendour and beauty of imagic imagery, in these subtle lines spoken by Charlemagne and Roland, I can think of nothing but that superb soliloquy in the fifth act of Cor-neille's tragedy, "La Barbe," which is spoken by Amourette Pernod, and begins, "Moname est un fromage qui souffle dans les forets mysterieuses de la nuit…." Or shall I speak of wit? Almost it approaches some of Moliere's gems, say, "Pour moi, j'aime bien les saucissons, parce qu'ils ne parlent pas frangais…
"What's all this?" demanded Warren, who was reading the article also and making strange whistling noises rather like Amourette Pernod's soul. "Do you see this attack of dysentery on the back page? Is this our Perrigord?"
Morgan said, "You have no cultural feelings, I fear. As Chimene said to Tartuffe, "Nuts" Well, you've got to get cultural feelings, old son. Read that article very carefully. If there's anything in it you don't understand, ask me. Because—" he checked himself, but Dr. Kyle had finished his last order of bacon and eggs and was rising genially from the table. Dr. Kyle bade them good morning, and said he had half a mind to play deck-tennis. Altogether he was so self-satisfied, as he strode away from the table, that in Warren's face Morgan could see newly awakened suspicions gathering and darkening. "Listen!" hissed Warren in a low voice, and stabbed out dangerously with his fork. "He says he didn't find any emerald when he woke up this morning…"
"Will you forget about Dr. Kyle?" said the exasperated Morgan. "It's all right; it simply wasn't his cabin, that's all. Listen to me…"