“Yes, you are,” said Forsyth. “You’re going to be in the lounge. Two of my clerks are going to be there also. One of these is going to take your name in vain. He’s going to meet the lady and say he’s you. Of course, it may not come off, but it’s worth trying. If it does, we’ve got her cold. There’s the evidence of a spare clerk and the hall-porter, to say she took John Snooks for Virgil Pardoner. You must be there yourself, to have a look at her. If, having seen her, you’ve anything more to say, say it to the spare clerk. And to-night you must leave for Lincolnshire. The real Miss Townshend must know the facts of the case, and we obviously can’t trust the post. If all goes well, she won’t be needed, but if there’s any hitch, she’ll have to be produced.”
Pardoner broke into a sweat.
Then—
“Need she be mixed up in it? I mean . . .”
The solicitor shrugged his shoulders.
“If A say’s she’s B,” he said shortly, “when she isn’t, the obvious thing to do is to produce B, isn’t it?”
“I’d better come back here at four,” said Virgil, positively. “After I’ve seen the woman.”
Forsyth shook his head.
“I’m leaving for Paris,” he said, “at two o’clock. Can’t get out of it. Back in a week, I hope. But don’t worry. When’s the wedding?” he added pleasantly.
“Twenty-fou—fifth,” said Virgil, with a sickly smile. “Soon be here now.”