“The devil he does!” Thoyne cried. “And where is he?”
“He is”—she began to laugh a little hysterically, then pulled herself up—“on his—his honeymoon.”
“His honeymoon!”
Thoyne stood stock still in the middle of the road and gazed, first at Kitty and then at Jimmy Trevor, who grinned appreciatively.
“It seems to be news,” the latter said dryly. “Didn’t you know? Am I making the first announcement? I seem to have created a sensation by posing as an amateur Morning Post. Why shouldn’t Billy get married if he wants? And she was a deuce of a nice girl, too!”
“But—the murder—!” Thoyne stammered.
“Murder? What murder? We are talking about a marriage, not a murder.”
“The murder of Sir Philip Clevedon,” Thoyne replied rather angrily. “You must have heard of it.”
“Not a word,” Jimmy responded. “I’ve been abroad, and only returned to England two days ago. Sir Philip Clevedon—why, that’s—then Billy is Sir William and doesn’t know it.”
“We must tell Mr. Holt,” Kitty broke in, and Thoyne nodded his agreement.