“Our plan is obvious,” Brentin replied. “I must board the Saratoga first thing in the morning, reintrodooce myself to Van Ginkel, confide in him and beg him to take Thompson on board for us, and be off with him kindly down the coast. East or west, he can dump him where he pleases, so long as he does dump him somewhere and leave him there like dirt. How does that strike you, gentlemen?”
“If only he can be got to go!” I answered; “and Mrs. Wingham? You must remember it was he who advised us to go to the Monopôle, no doubt giving the old lady instructions to keep an eye on us and report.”
“Well,” said Brentin, “Mr. Parsons here is her friend. He must manage to let her know we don’t start operations till Saturday. That will put her off the scent. And now, gentlemen, let us discuss details and positions.”
I left them to their discussion and went on shore to find my sister and Miss Rybot, who were at the rooms. My sister knew nothing whatever about Lucy—still less of her being at Monte Carlo. I had to make a clean breast of it all, and get her to take Lucy on board the yacht in the morning, so as to be out of Bailey Thompson’s way.
I found them without much difficulty, full as the rooms were. Miss Rybot was seated, playing roulette, rather unsuccessfully, if I might judge from her ill-humored expression. Facing her, standing staring at her pathetically, with a soft hat crushed under his arm, was a tall, blond, sentimental-looking young German.
“Tell that man to go away, please,” she said to me, crossly. “He’s been standing there staring at me the last half-hour, and he brings me bad luck. Tell him I hate the sight of him. Tell him to go away at once.”
I explained that I was scarcely sufficient master of German for all that.
“Keep my place, please,” she said, imperiously, and went round to the young man, who received her with a fascinating smile.
“Vous comprenez le Français?” I heard her say to him, folding her arms and looking him resolutely full in the face.
“Oui, mademoiselle.”