“You’ll be back in Wharton Park, dearest,” I whispered, “before the swallow dares!”
She pressed my arm again and smiled more happily than ever.
“The only thing that troubles me,” said my sister, “is how on earth I am to establish an alibi to Frank’s satisfaction, in case there’s a rumpus when we get back.”
“Alibis are old-fashioned nowadays,” I answered. “We shall have to think of something else for you than an alibi.”
The unsuspicious Bailey Thompson was standing at one of the carriage doors in a dandified attitude, making himself agreeable to Miss Rybot.
As we drove away he again said—for after all he was human and meant to be malicious—“But I do really wonder you didn’t do it, gentlemen, after all!”
“Don’t torture us with remorse, Mr. Bailey Thompson, sir,” Brentin cried; “the sense of neglected opportunity is hard to bear.”
“Well, all I can say is, I never saw an easier bit of work in my life, and in my absence you were really perfectly safe. Those French police are such utter fools, and as likely as not the Casino people would have let you off. Come, now, confess! Don’t you regret it?”
“Sir,” said Brentin, loftily, “I regret nothing, and never did. All is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.”
And the good detective couldn’t understand why, a few moments later, Brentin was seized with a great roar of laughter. He explained it was from seeing “Κοῦκ” in Greek letters over Cook’s offices; it looked so droll! We all laughed heartily, too, and so drove up in immense mirth and spirits to our hotel.