“I see no pieces, my sweet. You’ve given me back my dream.”
“In pieces, Richard. I broke it.”
“And now you’ve mended it, darling. You’ve given me back . . . our dream.”
The old wonderful light flung into those peerless eyes. The old exquisite smile came playing into her face.
“Oh, Richard,” she whispered, as though I had made her a present she never had dared expect.
Then she closed her eyes, but the smile never left her face. And presently, with my cheek against hers, she fell asleep.
And that is all, except that I am going to kill Berwick Perowne.
V
March 11th, 1929
‘The Office’ gave me two months’ leave—‘for the purpose of attending to private affairs.’ That was on February 25th. Upon the following day I disappeared: and forty-eight hours later I was in touch with Perowne. He had no idea, of course. But I was in touch . . . waiting. . . .
I found him at Barcelona, engaged on some Government job. What the job was I don’t know, but it left him plenty of time—to take two people about in his great big car. They were French, these two, and pretty rich. The girl was young and handsome, with a dangerously short upper lip and masses of fine red hair. When Perowne took them out, she sat in front with him, her husband and the chauffeur sitting behind. . . . The husband stuck it until five days ago. Then they left for Valencia, they said, he and his wife . . . going by road.