“There isn't much chance of our getting the bullet,” he admitted. “It went clean through Cargill's leg, it appears. But if we do get it, and if it turns out to be from a pistol that a girl could carry without attracting attention, then perhaps Mr. Wendover will reconsider his views.”
Chapter XI.
Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's Evidence
“I shan't be able to give you a game this morning, squire,” Sir Clinton explained at breakfast next day. “I've got another engagement.”
He glanced towards Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's empty seat at the adjoining table, and suppressed a grin as he saw the expression on Wendover's face.
“Need you advertise yourself quite so much in that quarter, Clinton?” Wendover demanded, rather put out by the turn of events.
Sir Clinton's features displayed an exaggerated expression of coyness, as though he were a boy half inviting chaff on the subject of a feminine conquest.
“I find her interesting, squire. And good-looking. And charming. And, shall we say, fascinating? It's a very rare combination, you'll admit; and hence I'd be sorry not to profit by it when it's thrust upon me.”
Wendover was somewhat relieved by the impish expression in Sir Clinton's eye.
“I've never known you to hanker after semi-society ladies before, Clinton. Is it just a freak? Or are you falling into senile decay? She's fairly obvious, you know, especially against this background.”
Sir Clinton failed to suppress his grin.