"Holà, cocher!" he said. "From the Couronne d'Or? Wired for to drive a lady and a boy to Monte Carlo?"
"Oui, monsieur!" cried the driver, gaily cracking his whip.
They scrambled in; and the horses stepped out. Tinker knelt on the seat, looking back over the hood. They were almost out of sight of the station when he fancied that he saw a hatless figure run out of it into the road. It might have been only fancy; they were so far off he could not trust his sight. Three minutes later he dropped down on the seat with a sigh of relief. "That's all right!" he said.
"Oh," said Claire, "how can I ever thank you? You've saved me—oh, what haven't you saved me from!"
"A bad hat—a regular bad hat," said Tinker gravely.
"You wonderful boy!" she cried, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Tinker wriggled uncomfortably. He often wished that there were not quite so many women in the world who insisted on embracing him.
"Well, you're a kind of cousin, you see," he said by way of defence.
After a while Claire cooled from her excitement to the cold understanding of her folly. Then she grew, very naturally, bitterly unhappy, and to his horror Tinker heard the sound of a stifled sob.
"I think, if you'll excuse me," he said hurriedly, "I'll go to sleep." And, happily for his comfort, his pretence at slumber was soon a reality. It was no less a comfort to Claire: she had her cry out, and felt the better for it.