They had stayed on indefinitely at Pendish, ostensibly awaiting Myra’s complete convalescence, and incidentally, as they told themselves, having their second honeymoon. At first she took it for granted that he would resign his post at the Quantock Garage.
“I’m not going to begin life again by breaking my word,” said he. “I promised to see him over his honeymoon.”
“That’s a bit mad and Quixotic,” said Olivia.
“So’s all that’s worth having in life, my dear,” said he.
So she had settled down for the time with her chauffeur husband, and meanwhile had been feeding him into health.
They read the letter together.
“It’s no use,” wrote Rowington, “to start again under the Briggs name. You’ve told the world that Triona is a pseudonym. Alexis Triona means something. John Briggs doesn’t.”
“He’s quite right,” said Olivia.
“As you will,” he said. “I give in. But you can’t say I’ve not done my very best to kill Alexis Triona.”
“And you can’t. Fate again. And—Alexis dear—I never knew John Briggs.”