Just then up came Parsons and Hines.
“Well, is it all right? Has he gone? Have they got him?”
“Look for yourselves, gentlemen!” he cried, handing them the glass. “Search earth and sky for vestiges of Mr. Bailey Thompson, of Scotland Yard and Brixton. You will not find him. He has passed out of our ken. He’s on his way to Majorca, Minorca, Ivaca, and the Balearic Isles generally. For purposes of any active mischief he is as dead and harmless as the dodo.”
“For the present—only for the present!” muttered Teddy, who was in his usual pallid condition.
“And now,” said Brentin, with satisfaction, putting away his glasses, “rebellion being dead, let us go back to the ‘Monopôle,’ enjoy our breakfast, and pay our bill. Then we pack up and get our things on board the yacht. Fortune smiles on us, gentlemen,” he added, “as ever on the bold. Nothing, so far, could be better!”
From the terrace of the “Monopôle” we took a last look over the sea before going in to breakfast. There was the Saratoga, rapidly growing diminutive as she bustled far away out to sea to the right. Exit Mr. Bailey Thompson, indeed!
Mrs. Wingham’s place, between Mrs. Sellars and Miss Marter, was empty. They told Teddy the old lady had breakfasted early, and was down at the rooms for a long afternoon’s play.
And Mr. Parsons was leaving? How sorry they were—how much they would miss him! Certainly they would say good-bye to Mrs. Wingham for him. Oh, we were all going to Bordighera in a friend’s yacht, and should most probably not return. Well, good-bye. Bon voyage!
“Now she’ll think,” said the sagacious Teddy, as he joined us, “the whole affair’s off, notwithstanding my telling her it was fixed for Saturday. She’ll fancy we’ve got frightened, or been warned, and have bolted. Good business!”