CHAPTER XXIII
WE ARRIVE SAFE IN LONDON AND GO TO MEDWORTH SQUARE—BACK AT “THE FRENCH HORN”—NEWS AT LAST OF THE AMARANTH—I INTERVIEW MR. CRAGE AND FIND HIM ILL
Very little remains to tell; but that little is of importance. Of our journey home together (my sister, Lucy, Bailey Thompson, Parsons, and I, the others sailing on board the yacht) I need say nothing, for it was entirely pleasant and uneventful. Our luggage wasn’t even robbed on the Italian lines; we felt the cold somewhat as we neared home, and that was all.
At Charing Cross Thompson was evidently well-known to the officials; he proclaimed us all his friends and above suspicion, so our portmanteaus were barely looked at; everybody touched their hats to him, and we felt quite royal in our immunities.
There we parted. Teddy jumped into a cab for Euston, to catch the night express for his dear Southport; my sister, Lucy, and I went off in a four-wheeler to Medworth Square; while the still unsuspicious Thompson remained on the platform, bowing and smiling. Once safely landed at Charing Cross, our duty to him was plainly at an end. No doubt he would immediately go off to Brixton, find his sister, Mrs. Wingham, and learn the truth; but what that might mean to us I really neither knew nor cared. We had so far so brilliantly succeeded that readers must not blame me if I continued obstinately optimistic, and believed, whatever trouble might still be in store for us, we should certainly somehow emerge from it scathless and joyous.
“I hope,” my sister said, as we drove away, “he won’t think it rude of me not asking him to come and call. After all, he’s not quite of our world, and he would need such a deal of explaining, for Frank always insists on knowing exactly who everybody is.”
“He won’t think of coming of his own accord, I suppose?” whispered Lucy. “And, oh! I do so wish he wasn’t a friend of Mr. Crage’s.”
“Lor’ bless you!” I philosophically remarked, “it’s even money we none of us ever see or hear of him again.”
But we did, that day week exactly, when he turned up at “The French Horn,” purple with ineffective rage, accompanied by his dazed French confrère, Monsieur Cochefort.
In Medworth Square all was as usual. The Thursday evening German band was playing the usual selection from that tiresome old “Mikado,” and my sweet niece Mollie was soon tearing down the stairs to welcome us.