When I entered the little place I found the Count seated at a table with Blythe and Henderson. The two latter were dressed shabbily, while the Count himself was in dark-grey, with a soft felt hat—the perfect counterfeit of the foreign courier.
With enthusiasm I was welcomed into the corner.
“Well?” asked Bindo, with a laugh, “and how do you like your new wife, Ewart?” and the others smiled.
“Charming,” I replied. “But I don’t see exactly where the joke comes in.”
“I don’t suppose you do, just yet.”
“It’s a risky proceeding, isn’t it?” I queried.
“Risky! What risk is there in gulling hotel people?” he asked. “If you don’t intend to pay the bill it would be quite another matter.”
“But why is the lady to pass as my wife? Why am I the Count de Bourbriac? Why, indeed, are we here at all?”
“That’s our business, my dear Ewart. Leave matters to us. All you’ve got to do is just to play your part well. Appear to be very devoted to La Comtesse, and it’ll be several hundreds into your pocket—perhaps a level thou’—who knows?”
“A thou’ each—quite,” declared Blythe, a cool, audacious international swindler of the most refined and cunning type.