"But—but what's the trouble?" I gasped.
Berry threw out his hands.
"Haven't you got it?" he said. "They think I'm Sycamore Tight."
* * * * *
I soon perceived the vanity of argument.
With my brother-in-law in the hand and fifty thousand francs in the bush, the three mechanics were inexorable.
They accepted my statements; they saw my point of view; they uncovered; they bowed; they laughed when I laughed; they admitted the possibility, nay, likelihood of a mistake; they deplored the inconvenience we were suffering. But, politely and firmly, they insisted that Berry should enter their car and accompany them to Lourdes.
That this their demand should be met was not to be thought of.
Adèle and I could not desert Berry; from the police at Lourdes nothing was to be expected but suspicion, hostility, and maddeningly officious delays; Berry's eventual release would only be obtained at a cost of such publicity as made my head swim.
Any idea of force was out of the question. But for the presence of my wife, we would have done what we could. With Adèle in our care, however, we could not afford to fail, and—they were three to two.