“You will regret this,” said Gordon between his teeth. “I can bring a thousand people to identify me.”
“And how many to identify Aunt Lizzie?” asked Diana with a curl of her lips.
Gordon had no answer. She had the exasperating habit of shutting every door in his face, dispelling every wild vision of liberty that hope conjured to shape.
Heloise was not silenced.
“Why, that’s not going to be difficult,” she drawled. “I’m Mrs. van Oynne of 71 Clarence Gate Gardens.”
“Very good,” nodded Diana. “You are at liberty to telephone to the police and allow them to identify you. I’ll tell them that by an error I have mistaken you for Double Dan’s—what is the word? partners? They will put things right.”
Heloise got up.
“I was never strong for fighting,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”
Diana led the way, Gordon came after, Mr. Superbus followed, emitting soft tuning noises from his mouth-organ. Were it in his repertoire, Gordon would have selected “The Death of Asa” as an appropriate accompaniment to that solemn march. He imagined himself a malefactor on his way to execution. Diana had the air of hangman and private torturer.
“Good-night,” he said mechanically, and stopped at the door of his room.