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Updated: May 9, 2025
In less than twenty minutes he had exchanged clothing with the American in detail, even down to shirts, collars and neckties; had packed in his own pockets the several articles taken from the other, together with the jointed jimmy and a few of his personal effects, and was ready to bid adieu to himself, to that Michael Lanyard whom Paris knew.
Lanyard closed the bag, thrust it back beneath the berth, and got upon his feet. "But you are quite sure ?" "My jewels are all in order," she affirmed, without meeting his gaze. "And you miss nothing else?" "Nothing." Was there an accent of hesitation in this response? "Then, I take it, the thief was disappointed." Now she glanced quickly at his eyes. "Why do you say that?"
There was always a bare chance of an accident that De Morbihan's car would burst a tire or be pocketed by the traffic, enabling Lanyard to strike off into some maze of dark side-streets, abandon the cab, and take to cover in good earnest. But that was a forlorn hope at best, and he knew it.
A lanyard of six-thread manila, put across double between holes in the top of its sides, formed a rope bridle or bail. To the middle of this bail Jim tied the thirty-foot painter with a clove hitch. Then he dropped the tub over the bow. "Pull in your oar, Perce!" he called out. Percy obeyed gladly. A heavy sea struck the dory. She reared, shot back, and started to swing sidewise.
Nor was wounded amour-propre mended by an exclamation in the room behind his chair, the accents of Colonel Stanistreet thick with contempt: "The Lone Wolf! Faugh!" Presently Blensop came back, closed the window, and passed blindly by Lanyard, his reappearance saluted by Stanistreet in tones that shook with contained temper. "You saw that animal outside the walls?"
But he was conscious that the speaker occupied a chair by the bed, and knew that he was bending near to catch his answer; for the air was tainted with vinous breath. Yes: one required no stronger identification, it was beyond any doubt the chief engineer of the Sybarite. "Say it's all right, won't you?" the mutter pleaded. "I am listening," Lanyard replied "as you perceive."
"I don't believe you," Liane retorted coolly. For some moments Lanyard continued to stare reflectively at his feet. Nothing whatever of his thought was to be gathered from his countenance, though eyes more shrewd to read than those of Phinuit or Monk were watching it intently. "Well, Mr. Lanyard, what do you say?" Lanyard lifted his meditative gaze to the face of Phinuit.
Other impressions, less ultimate, proved puzzling, disconcerting, and paradoxically reassuring. Lanyard commanded a fair view of Roddy across the waist of the room. The detective had ordered a meal that matched his aspect well both of true British simplicity. He was a square-set man with a square jaw, cold blue eyes, a fat nose, a thin-lipped trap of a mouth, a face as red as rare beefsteak.
"U.S. Secret Service," Crane informed him with a grin. "Velasco spotted you had seen you years ago in Paruss tipped me off." "So one inferred. And these gentlemen?" Lanyard indicated the captain and third officer. "I wised them up had to, when this happened." "Naturally, monsieur. Proceed...."
She took little part in the conversation, seldom interrupting what was practically a duologue between her putative father and the third of their party. This last was one, whom Lanyard was sure he knew, though he could see no more than the back of Monsieur le Comte Remy de Morbihan. And he wondered with a thrill of amusement if it were possible that Roddy was on the trail of that tremendous buck.
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