"I came to steal the silver," I said brazenly.
That was my plan, you see. If he would only take me away and give me in charge he would be safely out of the way and beyond interfering. And the next morning, when everything was over, I would tell my real name and be released, and everything would be over. Something had to be done at once, for, as Daphne said, "to kidnap the Prime Minister would be a coup d'état, but to try to do it and fail would be low comedy."
When I said I was stealing the silver, which was certainly not worth five guineas, Mr. Harcourt took a step back and caught hold of a chair.
"Really!" he said. And then: "But what in the world did you intend doing with it?—if you don't mind the question."
This was unexpected, but I rose to the occasion.
"Melt it," I declared. I thought this was inspired. Don't they always melt down stolen silver?
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "You are experienced!" Then he sat down suddenly in the chair and coughed very hard into his handkerchief. But he made no move to arrest me.
"Aren't you going to give me in charge?" I asked in alarm, for time was flying. He put away his handkerchief.
"Wouldn't that be a horrible thing for me to do?" he asked gravely. "Perhaps it's your first offence, you know, although I doubt that. You seem so capable. And if I let you go you may reform. Take my word for it, there's nothing to a life of crime. I suppose you—er—appropriated the string of pearls that are not imitation?"
This was unexpected.