"Have you thought," asks Constance, as she leans lightly against the iron railing, "that to-morrow is Sunday, and that Mr. Lamotte, unless he has already returned, can not reach home until Monday?"
"It has occurred to me."
"And poor Sybil! Where will she be by then?"
"Miss Wardour! What disinterestedness! I thought you were thinking of your detective."
"My detective! Why, what a lot of stupid people! He might as well not come at all. Why didn't you tell me to telegraph at once?"
"Because Mr. Lamotte was coming. I depended upon him."
"And he has made a blunder."
"Not necessarily."
"Why?"
"He may have seen an officer immediately, and the man may be now on the way, by the night train. He will be sure to be here before Monday, or he is no detective. They depend very little on the regular trains."