“To be in time for the Paris train in the morning?” laughed the other. “No, thanks, my friend. I want to be somewhere else about that time.”
He had drunk a good deal during the interview, and Farloe knew that he was getting into one of those dare-devil moods, in which it was rather dangerous to play with him, or to cross him.
“As you please,” he said, a little sullenly. “I hope you are quite right in your confidence that they have not got on our tracks yet.”
“Make your mind easy, my dear chap. Your sister took care of that by putting our friend Smeaton on a wrong scent. I have often laughed when I thought of them hunting every nook and corner around St. Albans for the gentleman with whom she had only a casual acquaintance.”
Farloe made no reply. Stent held out one hand, and with the other clapped the young man on the shoulder with rough good humour.
“Good-night, old man. Go to bed and sleep soundly, for I’m going. And, I say, don’t bring me out again on a midnight ride like this unless there is very strong reason. Now, just a last word—and I say it in all seriousness—I am not a bit discouraged by what you have told me. Let them smell about, but they’ll find nothing.”
He turned to the door, and fired a parting shot:
“Now, you follow my advice not to give way to idle fancies, and you’ll turn out as well as any of us. And we shall all be proud of you. Once again, good-night.”
As he spoke the last word, the telephone bell rang, and he paused, and turned round.
Farloe looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.