"Well, good-by."
Norton filled his pipe, drew his chair to the window, and stared at the great liner going down to sea.
"Lord, lord!" he murmured. Then he smiled and chuckled. Some bright morning he would have all New York by the ears, the police running round in circles, and the chiefs of the rival sheets tearing their hair. What a story! Four columns on the first page, and two whole pages Sunday.... And all of a sudden he ceased to smile and chuckle.
In the living room of the Countess Olga Perigoff's apartment the mistress lay reading on the divan. There was no cigarette between her well shaped lips, for she was not the accepted type of adventuress. In fact, she was not an adventuress; she was really the Countess Perigoff. Her maiden name had been Olga Pushkin; but more of that later.
When Braine came in he found her dreaming with half-closed eyes. He flourished an evening newspaper.
"Olga, even the best of us make mistakes. Here, just glance over this."
The Russian accepted the newspaper and read the heading indicated: "Aeronaut picked up far out at sea. Slips ashore from tramp steamer. Had five thousand in cash in his pockets."
"Hargreave escaped!"
"Not necessarily," she replied. "If it was Hargreave he would have had more than five thousand in his pockets. My friend, I believe it an attempt to fool you; or it is another man entirely." She clicked her teeth with the tops of her polished nails.
"There are two young women in the house. What the deuce can that mean?"