“It does sound plausible,” he admitted.
“Then ’fess up,” Michael urged. “Come on, Denby, what did you bring in?”
“Myself and Monty,” Denby returned, “and he isn’t dutiable. All the smuggling that our party did was performed by Monty out of regard for you.”
“I still remain unconvinced,” Ethel Cartwright declared obstinately. “I think it was two thoughts for yourself and one for Alice.”
“Now, Denby,” Michael cried jocularly, “you’re among friends. Where have you hidden the swag?”
“Do tell us,” Nora entreated. “It’d be so nice if you were a criminal and had your picture in the rogues’ gallery. The only criminals I know are those who just run over people in their motors, and that gets so commonplace. Do tell us how you started on a life of crime.”
“Nora!” Monty cried reprovingly. Things were increasing his nervousness to a horrible extent. Why wouldn’t they leave smuggling alone?
“I’m not interested in your endeavors,” Nora said superciliously. “You’re only a sort of petty larceny smuggler with your silver hair-brushes. Mr. Denby does things on a bigger scale. You’re safe with us, Mr. Denby,” she reminded him.
“I know,” he answered, “so safe that if I had any dark secrets to reveal I’d proclaim them with a loud voice.”
“That’s always the way,” Nora complained. “Every time I meet a man who seems exciting he turns out to be just a nice man—I hate nice men.” She crossed over to the agitated Monty.