“Good-bye, my ugly one!” she cried, with a charming smile, as two of the men stepped up to her.
“Good-bye,” Hugh bowed, and a tinge of regret showed for a moment in his eyes.
“Not good-bye, Irma.” Carl Peterson removed his cigar, and stared at Drummond steadily. “Only au revoir, my friend; only au revoir.”
EPILOGUE
“I simply can’t believe it, Hugh.” In the lengthening shadows Phyllis moved a little nearer to her husband, who, quite regardless of the publicity of their position, slipped an arm round her waist.
“Can’t believe what, darling?” he demanded lazily.
“Why, that all that awful nightmare is over. Lakington dead, and the other two in prison, and us married.”
“They’re not actually in jug yet, old thing,” said Hugh. “And somehow...” he broke off and stared thoughtfully at a man sauntering past them. To all appearances he was a casual visitor taking his evening walk along the front of the well-known seaside resort so largely addicted to honeymoon couples. And yet ... was he? Hugh laughed softly; he’d got suspicion on the brain.
“Don’t you think they’ll be sent to prison?” cried the girl.
“They may be sent right enough, but whether they arrive or not is a different matter. I don’t somehow see Carl picking oakum. It’s not his form.”