"Oh, but I must," Pat said, lightly.
"Okay, then," he said, dejectedly. "See you in the morning, I hope. Thanks for all you've done for me—thanks a whole lot."
A tired smile, a flutter of trailing white, and Pat was gone.
"She's the stuff all right," McGinity remarked, as soon as she had left the room; "true stuff." Then I heard him mutter to himself: "I wonder what she sees in that gink, Prince Matani?"
After that, he barely spoke a dozen words. He looked all in; even a glass of sherry did not seem to revive him. He acted a little dazed. When I told him he was to sleep in our best bedroom, he simply said: "Good."
At three o'clock I left him there, in the hands of Niki, and trudged off to bed myself, feeling like a wet rag, and wondering what the morning would bring forth.
VIII
At breakfast, Henry wore a puzzled and anxious look, for which Pat and I did not find it hard to account. Apparently urged by a twinge of remorse, he had paid a secret visit to the cellar earlier in the morning, and to his great consternation and alarm, had found the reporter missing. Up to breakfast time, he was, of course, unaware of Pat's doings, and had only his own knowledge to go on. Niki had kept his silence, for a very good reason, which was—Pat.
Olinski was a few minutes late in joining us. Luckily only the four of us were seated at the table. Prince Matani had caught an early train for the city. Jane had remained in bed with a nervous headache. Olinski lost no time in making inquiry about the imprisoned reporter. Leaning over to Henry, he asked, in a low voice: "Is everything all right?"