Durant looked at Giles, too, with new eyes, appreciating now the frightful danger from this man. He knew of Grand Duke Vassily’s murder—all Europe knew of it! The exiled Russian noble had been hideously murdered and robbed—a crime so horribly brutal, so well conceived and executed, that it was supposed to have been perpetrated by Soviet agents. Indeed, the name of Korin had been mentioned as that of the murderer, but the man had never been found.
Things were getting a bit thick, thought Durant to himself. In other words, the simple situation was becoming extremely complex and correspondingly threatening. The only relief in sight was that by Sunday night the group would be scattered, leaving him and Larson alone here with Giles—or Michael Korin. Yet would it be safe for Larson to remain here another twenty-four hours? There was the rub.
The quartet adjourned to the garden for coffee. While Dardent and Larson were deep in floods of Danish, the Baronne was temporarily left to Durant.
“It’s confounded hard to get a word with you!” he complained, handing her the envelope. “You’re booked for Southampton-Havre tomorrow night.”
Her eyes questioned him anxiously. “And you?”
“Paris on Monday. I’ll show up, never fear! But Boris has caught a Tartar this time and doesn’t know it, so I’m afraid you wont see our honest Giles again.”
“Explain!”
“Sha’n’t do it. I’m going by results. I intend to show up in Paris and open the fight on Boris—”
“You won’t find him!” she breathed. “He disappears. No one knows—”
“Tell that to the marines,” said Durant confidently. “Now, you suggest a motor-trip tomorrow—I want to get out of here for the day. Anywhere!”