“Don't let him,” she cried.
But Brother Frank was made of sterner stuff. This was precisely the sort of thing which, in his opinion, made for a jolly afternoon.
For years he had been waiting for something of this kind. He was experiencing that pleasant thrill which comes to a certain type of person when the victim of a murder in the morning paper is an acquaintance of theirs.
“What are you talking about?” he said. “There's no danger. At least, not much. He might easily come down all right. Besides, he wants to. What do you want to go interfering for?”
Roland returned. The negotiations with the bird-man had lasted a little longer than one would have expected. But then, of course, M. Feriaud was a foreigner, and Roland's French was not fluent.
He took Muriel's hand.
“Good-by,” he said.
He shook hands with the rest of the party, even with Albert Potter. It struck Frank that he was making too much fuss over a trifle—and, worse, delaying the start of the proceedings.
“What's it all about?” he demanded. “You go on as if we were never going to see you again.”
“You never know.”