The others rejoined them, and the coffee finished, they went into the house and settled down to an evening of bridge. Durant had no more chance that evening for a word with her—he had more than a suspicion, indeed, that Giles was keeping a sharp eye on the Baronne. The motor trip was settled upon for the next morning, with general acclaim.
It was late when the game broke up, and Durant saw his supposed guests to their rooms, then turned in, dismissing his problems. He did not waken until roused at seven-thirty by Giles, who bore his “early tea” after the approved English fashion. Then he sat up in bed.
“Shut the door—that’s right! Look here, these Americans aren’t used to the English custom of early tea, and I’m afraid your scheme will slip up in the morning. Suppose you fix us up some coffee tonight, after we take Baroness Glincka to her train—eh? That would make the matter more certain.”
“Good,” approved the other, his high cheek-bones lending his aquiline face a distinctly Tartar look. “Yes, a good idea. Thank you!”
Twenty minutes later, after a light knock at the adjoining door, Durant stepped into Larson’s room. Larson was shaving, and nodded cheerfully to him. Durant lighted a cigarette, drew up a chair, and played the idea that had come to him.
“What do you think of that man of mine—Giles?”
Larson grimaced. “If you ask me, I think he’s a crook!”
“He is.” Durant laughed. “I overheard an interesting conversation this morning. It seems that tonight, after our party breaks up, a nice little game is to be played on you and me. Giles will fix us up some coffee and sandwiches, and when we go to bed, we’ll stay a long time—long enough for the get-away.”
Larson, holding his razor in air, turned and stared at him.
“Is that straight? Would they pull that stuff on a lord?”