“Ten fifties—ten thousands—ten twenties,” he was mumbling, “nice clean notes—beautiful crisp notes—he won’t get ’em back from me, if that’s what he’s after! No, no, not from Crage. Crage wasn’t in Clement’s Inn for forty years for nothing. Ten more fifties!—” So he went on mumbling to himself, and stuffing the notes away in a broken old pocket-book, while Brentin handed me over the receipt, and snapped his grip with a click.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “We’ve bluffed ’em. Keep cool.”
“Hadn’t you better let me keep ’em for you!” whined the woman, bending over Crage’s chair. “You’ll only lose ’em. Give ’em me to take care of for you, there’s a dearie!”
To which pathetic appeal the old man paid no sort of heed, but pushed the pocket-book into his inside breast-pocket, with many senile signs of satisfaction and joy.
“And now!” cried Brentin, in imperturbable high spirits, “the wedding-procession will reform, and proceed to the church for the tying of the sacred knot. Mr. Bailey Thompson—Mossieu Cochefort—we shall be glad if you will join us, and afterwards, at ‘The French Horn,’ to a slight but high-toned repast. Good-day, Mr. Crage; take care of yourself and your money. Let us hope that when the robins nest they will find you in your usual robust health. Mossieu Cochefort—Mr. Bailey Thompson—if you will kindly follow us—”
But a sudden access of fury seemed to have seized the usually calm little detective; he was stamping his feet, waving his arms, almost foaming at the mouth.
In execrable French, Stratford-atte-Bow-Street French, he began to swear aloud he would have nothing more to do with it, that he had done his best, that he had never yet had dealings with the French police but they hadn’t muddled it; for his part, his work was finished, and he was going home.
“Here they are!” he cried, “three of them, all ready for you. Will you have them, or won’t you? Les voilar! Nong? Vous ne les voulay pas? Then if you don’t want them, why the ——” (dreadful bad word!) “did you bring me off down here?” he yelled, breaking into profane English.
“Mais, voyons! voyons!” murmured the startled and conciliatory Cochefort.
“Damn your voyons!” Bailey Thompson screamed. “If you don’t want them, and won’t take them, do the rest of it yourself, the best way you can. I wash my hands of it. Good-day, gentlemen, and thank your lucky stars for the imbecility of the French police!” and with that he rushed to the door, through the hall, and out into his cab. As he pulled the hall door open I heard the wedding-bells come surging in with a new burst of joy.