“I wouldn’t miss it for a fortune.”
We duly met the honeymoon couple at Paddington.
“Where the hell have you been?” Thoyne demanded harshly.
“Where?” Billy echoed. “On my honeymoon. There is Mrs. Billy Clevedon, and—”
“No,” I interrupted suavely; “Lady Clevedon.”
He swung round facing me.
“Who the hell are you, and what the devil do you mean by that?” he asked.
“Sir Philip Clevedon is dead,” I replied quietly.
He stood glaring at me for a moment or two, as if he thought I was mad, then, reading confirmation in the faces around him, he turned to his wife.
“Do you hear that, Elsie?” he shouted. “Sir Philip is dead, and I am Sir William, and you are My Lady, and, yes, by gad! I’ve got pots of money. By Jove! yes. Poor old Philip—he was a bit of a—but there, he’s dead. What a life it is!”