“And what my missus will say when I come home short, I shudder to think,” he said pathetically. “I don’t know: the only satisfaction I’ve got is that it was done on dooty.”
This significantly. When he had gone, Diana asked:
“What is a toe worth, Bobbie? I must send the poor dear something. Would two hundred pounds be too little?”
“It was a little toe,” said Bobbie thoughtfully; “a big toe would have cost you more. Try him with two hundred.”
Diana wrote at once.
She felt in excellent humour despite the empty safe with its hanging door; despite the shadow of tragedy which had impinged upon the house. Eleanor and the cook had made an early return. She had told them to stay away until Tuesday. They had argued (so they said) as to whether she had said Monday or Tuesday, and, to be on the safe side, had returned on the earlier day. Cook’s triumph (she had supported the Tuesday view) was tempered by the chagrin of a lost twenty-four hours of well-paid idleness.
Heloise, from an upper window, saw the detective take his ceremonious departure. She had reason to be glad that Dempsi’s shots had done no greater mischief. She had been noticeably nervous all that morning, starting at every sound. Once Diana had found her hiding—there was no other word for it—in the little book-room and, detected, she had been so frightened and confused that Diana for a second was puzzled, till she remembered that the abrupt departure of Double Dan must have shocked the poor girl beyond understanding.
Diana had finished her letter when Heloise came aimlessly into the room and looked round. Dempsi was sitting on the sofa, his face in his hands, looking moodily into the fire. Bobbie was in his own room, engaged in some mysterious business of his own (he was writing frantic telegrams to Gordon, imploring him to return; these he addressed to every hotel in Paris where he was likely to be found).
Diana looked up with a smile, blotted the envelope and fixed a stamp.
“You must talk with Aunt—with Helosie—and amuse her,” she said.