"I think so," she said. Then the voice quavered and she turned away. "He's rather precious."
The car was brought to the door, and the driver—who, after all, had been paid not to be surprised—looked on unemotionally as we carried the Seraph on board. I occupied an uncomfortable little seat backing the engine, while Sylvia sat in one corner and the Seraph was propped up in the other.
On the way back I was compelled to repeat in extenso the whole story of our search, from the hour we left Adelphi Terrace to the moment when Miss Draper bolted with the Orthodox Church priest and I forced my way into the darkened prison cell.
Sylvia's face was an interesting study in expression as the narrative proceeded.
"But how could he know?" she asked in a puzzled tone when I had ended. "You must explain that. I don't see how it's possible."
"Madam, I have provided you with a story," I replied in the manner of Dr. Johnson; "I am not obliged to provide you with a moral."
As a matter of fact I had reversed the natural order, and given the moral before the story. The moral was pointed when I drank a friendly cup of tea in Cadogan Square; the day before she marked his cheek with its present angry wale.
Of course, if you point morals before there's a story to hang them from, you must expect to see them disregarded.