“Who the devil is d’Arcy?”
For a moment he stared. Then, angrily snapping two fingers, he cried:
“In taking you from this damned house to-day, I had intended to leave a card for him, not a p. p. c. either, one with our address on it and the hours when I would be at home. If there was any shooting going on, I intended to be in it. Now some duffer must interfere.”
With a rapid intake of the breath, he considered her. At the moment, he doubted it could be true. Yet her face, with its hysterical blending of joy and sorrow, seemed to certify that it was so. After all, he reflected, however the odour may occur, always the smell of an enemy’s corpse is sweet. But, uncertain still, he threw out for clincher:
“Is that what you meant by the key of the prison?”
She moved to him.
“Gulian, yes, and never can I be thankful enough that it was not your hand that turned it.”
Verplank tossed his bandaged head.
“So this is the end!”