"It is marvellous!" the brothers shouted out in chorus. "It will be impossible to detect. Monsieur, you are the greatest mechanical genius the world has ever seen!"
It was a great moment for Emile Deschamps. All the theatrical instincts so deeply implanted within him were gratified. To watch the faces of his audience, to see the dawn of understanding and admiration as he talked, had been to him like cool water to one in the desert.
He stood still now, one hand upon his heart, and bowed. He had no thought of mockery, the gesture was perfectly spontaneous and sincere. He turned to Basil.
"And you, my friend, what do you think of it?" he asked.
Basil started. He had been thinking furiously, and the question came unexpectedly.
"It is, of course, extremely brilliant," he said. "Naturally I can see that even more readily than our friends here. I don't believe any brain but yours, Emile, would ever have thought of it. Properly worked, and there are a good many details I should like to discuss with you, it's almost certain the scheme will succeed. But——"
"Ah," Deschamps burst in, "the usual English reservation! The invariable 'but' of caution! What is it now, you cold-blooded islander?"
"Oh, it is not caution," Basil answered. "Haven't I just told you that the thing must succeed with a few modifications upon your original idea? It is the morality of the thing I am thinking of."
Deschamps had sat down. He jumped up now like a Jack-in-the-box. "Tiens!" he cried. "Morality? Morality?"