“You ought to know—you’ve lived in England.”
“Hm! Good gosh, man—do they know about my money?”
“Probably suspect you have some, while they know I have some,” said Durant. “What’s more, I gather that our friend Giles is wanted by the police in several countries. Rather interesting to think what might have happened, eh? I’ll turn him over to the police—”
“Don’t do that!” Larson faced him earnestly. “Not until I’m safe, anyhow. Don’t you know their ways here? All hands would be gone over with a fine-tooth comb, and that’d mean my finish!”
“Oh!” said Durant. “But what to do, then?”
“Take him with us,” said Larson promptly, and his blue eyes sparkled. “We’ll take the Baroness to her train, see? But we’ll have our own luggage aboard too. Then you spring it on Giles that we’re going somewhere for the night—we can go to a hotel—and tell him to meet us tomorrow and go to Paris with us. That’ll knock him off his feet, believe me! I thought that fellow had a bad look to his eye, all along.”
“All right; we’ll drop him in Paris, then. Meantime, about your money: Giles will drive us today, and that’s why the place is safe enough until tonight. We’ll go over by air, and there’s no Customs examination that way; better make the money into a separate packet and take it with you, however, as the luggage is packed in a separate compartment.”
Larson nodded, and his wrinkled, shrewd old face cracked in a grin. “Fine, My Lord, fine! We’ll have some fun, eh?” Durant rather thought they would—before it was over.
At ten that Sunday morning the big Daimler, with the lunch packed and aboard, was standing before the gate of the King’s Road house, and Giles had just announced that all was ready, when Larson flung open the door of Durant’s room with an excited word.
“Durant! Come here—quick!”