“To hold them until I can get into the safe,” said Durant. “Better so.”
“Suit yourself.”
“What sort of receipt do you want?”
“Receipt, hell!” ejaculated Larson. “Don’t be a fool. I don’t need any receipt from you.”
Durant calmly opened all the packages, found them to be as stated, and then stowed them away in his grip, which he replaced in his room, after locking. He chuckled again to think what Makoff would say to this simple acquisition—after so much pains and expense had been bestowed to get Larson in a murder-trap!
“Decidedly,” he said cynically, “it pays to be an honest man!”
Had Larson been anything but what he was, the composition of Lord Northcote’s week-end party must have struck him as very singular, to say the least.
The only woman in the party was Baroness Glincka, who arrived for luncheon on Saturday. Count Dardent proved to be a worn-out, waspish little man with waxed mustaches and dyed hair, who spoke fair English and fluent Danish; he was French, and Durant made a shrewd guess that he had left Paris very much for his health’s sake, not to mention his liberty. He noted that Helen Glincka very obviously disliked the little count.
After their day together, Larson and Durant had become almost intimate.
Durant, at least, found his liking for the shrewd old rascal increased by acquaintance. Nothing had appeared in the newspapers in regard to the finding of a trussed-up detective aboard the boat-train, but this meant nothing, except that an extensive secret search was being made for Gunnar Hanson. No further word had come to Durant via Giles or the maid. No other guests arrived, and the four sat down to dinner Saturday night with Durant very much in the dark as to plans. Larson, however, was clearly charmed by thus mixing with Continental and English nobility, and enjoyed himself hugely.