Sandra became aware that Doc was grinning at her. "Yes, it's true enough, Miss Grayling," he said. "I trust you will pardon the deception, though it was hardly one, even technically. Every word I told you about Dirty Old Krakatower is literally true. Except the long white beard—he never wore a beard after he was 35—that part was an out-and-out lie! Yes, yes! I will be along in a moment! Do not worry, the spectators will get their money's worth out of me! And WBM did not with its expense account buy my soul—that belongs to the young lady here."
Doc rose, lifted her hand and kissed it. "Thank you, mademoiselle, for a charming interlude. I hope it will be repeated. Incidentally, I should say that besides.... (Stop pulling at me, man!—there can't be five minutes on my clock yet!) ... that besides being Dirty Old Krakatower, grandmaster emeritus, I am also the special correspondent of the London Times. It is always pleasant to chat with a colleague. Please do not hesitate to use in your articles any of the ideas I tossed out, if you find them worthy—I sent in my own first dispatch two hours ago. Yes, yes, I come! Au revoir, mademoiselle!"
He was at the bottom of the stairs when Sandra jumped up and hurried to the balustrade.
"Hey, Doc!" she called.
He turned.
"Good luck!" she shouted and waved.
He kissed his hand to her and went on.
People glared at her then and a horrified official came hurrying. Sandra made big frightened eyes at him, but she couldn't quite hide her grin.