“Your mistake,” said Makoff, and smiled. “Your chauffeur, Giles, will meet the train.” And this was all he would say.
In the drizzling rain of a dark gray dawn, the Tyrania disembarked her passengers into the lighter, while the rattling, banging winches sent aboard the nets of hold luggage. Durant stood in the rain on the upper deck of the lighter, watching.
“I’ve been looking for you.” The Baronne emerged from the cabin, joined him. Her face was pale, anxious, her sky-blue eyes wide and filled with alarm. “I’ve learned what’s up—”
Durant, touching his hat, turned suddenly to the rail. “Look!” he broke in. There was a swift commotion forward—angry cries, orders, a medley of voices. One of the nets had just come down.
“What is it?” she demanded, frowning at the rain-wet scene. Durant laughed.
“That,” he said, “is the pet suitcase of our friend Lewis going over the side. It’s gone! Here’s the sequel.” And he opened his hand to show a twenty-pound note. “But you were going to say—”
She came close to him. “I’ve found out about it,” she said rapidly in French. “I think Larson’s to be murdered—I’m not sure. He’s carrying a large sum—got it from the purser—in cash.”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Durant, and took her hand. He smiled into her eyes. “Out of the rain, now! All’s well that ends well. Au revoir!”
The last Durant saw of Lewis, the little rascal was involved in heated argument at the Customs shed with sundry porters. Durant laughed and passed on. His own trail was covered; the cocaine and substitute alike were gone; and the past was closed. The future remained.
Closeted in a first-class compartment with Larson, Durant arranged about breakfast, took his companion into the restaurant car, and thawed him out in no time. Returning, they lighted cigars and became more or less confidential. Durant found himself treated with the same curious interest he had noticed the previous evening, but could not penetrate to the reason.