"If you think that, I wish you'd speak to his lordship."
"I have. Your innocence is established. And I've promised Harrowby to keep his little mystery dark."
"You're very kind," said Minot, and went on into the hotel.
The remainder of the day passed lazily. Dick Minot felt lost indeed, for seemingly there were no more doughty deeds to be done in the name of Jephson. The Gaiety lady was gone; her letters were in the hands of the man who had written them. The claimant to the title languished among the alligators of Tarragona, a prisoner. Trimmer appeared to be baffled. Bridesmaids arrived. The wedding gown appeared. It looked like smooth sailing now.
Jack Paddock, met for a moment late in the afternoon, announced airily:
"By the way, the Duke and Duchess of Lismore have come. You know—the sausage lady and her captive. My word—you should see her! A wardrobe to draw tears of envy from a theatrical star. Fifty costly necklaces—and only one neck!"
"Tragic," smiled Minot.
"Funny thing's happened," Paddock whispered. "I met the duchess once abroad. She sent for me this noon and almost bowled me over. Seems she's heard of Mrs. Bruce as the wittiest woman in San Marco. And she's jealous. 'You're a clever boy,' says her ladyship to me. 'Coach me up so I can outshine Mrs. Bruce.' What do you know?"
"Ah—but you were the pioneer," Minot reminded him.
"Well, I was, for that matter," said Mr. Paddock. "But I know now it wasn't a clever idea, if this woman can think of it, too."