Recalling his latest words, she banished her doubts. Of course, he loved her! It was the game that he missed! Paul Bernard, a name familiar and respected in official circles on two continents, had retired. Was ever a famous man content with love alone?
Nor did she blame him—much.
The reunion with Elsa and Landis had been a success. But she smothered a sigh as she gave the signal to rise.
“Come along, Elsa! These two head-hunters want to talk shop. We’ll leave them to steep themselves in crime!”
With a backward glance at her husband she slipped her arm about the girl and led her out of the room.
Bernard and Landis entered the drawing-room and settled themselves in the midst of that surprising conglomeration of savage weapons and hunting trophies with which their hostess had decorated the place. To them appeared Mrs. Bernard’s soft-footed houseboy, Tsu. He set tiny cups of coffee and tall, icy glasses at their elbows and as silently withdrew.
“Pretty decent of you to come back and hobnob with a murderer,” observed Bernard at length.
Landis cocked an ironic eye at him, then shook his head slowly. “Don’t rub it in, sir!”
“Why, you pinned the thing on me and I admitted it! If Charles Carson hadn’t murdered Foot, where would I be today?”