EXIT MR. BAILEY THOMPSON
FRIDAY dawned, blue and auspicious, and soon after twelve Brentin and I
called at his hotel to conduct the luckless Thompson on board the
_Saratoga_. We had matured our little plan, and as we went down the hill
to the Condamine we began to put it in motion.
In this wise. Brentin suddenly pulled up short, saying: “Sakes alive! I
have forgotten to telegraph to the hotel at Venice to secure our rooms.
Mr. Blacker, will you conduct our friend to the boat, and I will join
you?”
I went on with Thompson to the boat lying ready for us, and there we
waited. Then at the top of the hill appeared Brentin, as per
arrangement, outside the telegraph office, making weird signals with his
arms.
“What on earth is he doing?” I innocently asked.
“He apparently wants you,” replied the unsuspicious Thompson; “perhaps
he has forgotten the name of the hotel.”
“Oh, Lord!” I ejaculated, “and I shall have to go all the way back up
that horrible hill. Don’t you wait for me, please. If you don’t mind
just going on board and sending the boat back, we shall be ready, and by
that time Parsons and Hines will have joined us. We are a little too
early as it is.”
“The others come from the _Amaranth_, I presume?”
“Yes; there’s the boat”—for we had arranged they should at any rate
start, and not turn back till they had seen the detective decoyed below
deck on board the _Saratoga_.
“_Au revoir!_” I cried, and without turning, up the hill I hastened,
only too delighted and relieved to hear the boat put off and the soft
plash of the oars behind me.
I never turned till I got to the telegraph office, and then Brentin and
I stood there and watched with breathless interest. Brentin had glasses
with him, and at once turned them on the _Saratoga_.
“Van Ginkel receives him,” he chuckled, “with stately, old-fashioned
courtesy. Thompson explains how it is he is alone, and that the boat is
to go back for us. Van Ginkel insists on taking his plaid shawl, and
entreats him to come below out of the sun. He leads the way, and they go
to the head of the saloon companion-ladder, engaged in affable
conversation and friendly rivalry for the shawl. They disappear. Bravo!
The _Amaranth_ boat turns back. The _Saratoga_ men rapidly haul their
own boat on board. The anchor is apparently already weighed. Animated
figures cross and recross the deck. Orders are rapidly given—she’s off!
By Heaven, sir, she’s off!”
A long pause, while the shapely _Saratoga_ begins to leave the harbor
and head for the open sea. She crosses the bows of the _Amaranth_, where
the rest of our company are standing, with Captain Evans and his crew,
waiting and watching.
“Ah, ha!” roared Brentin, suddenly. “Thompson’s head reappears, without
his hat. He looks round him, scared. He hurries to the captain, who is
walking the bridge, his hands behind him, his eye watchful. He speaks to
the captain. He shouts, he beats the bridge, he foams at the mouth. The
captain pays him no heed—no heed, sir, whatever. He even casually steps
on his fingers. Ha! he rushes to the man at the wheel. He gesticulates,
he yells, he attempts to seize the wheel. Steady, Scotland Yard! You
should know better than that. Bravo! The man at the wheel kicks a long
leg out at him and shouts to the captain. The captain gives sharp,
decisive orders. Bravo! Well done! Bailey Thompson is seized by a couple
of Long Tom Coffins and hurried away. They hurry him, struggling
violently, to the head of the companion-ladder. Down with him,
gentlemen! Down with him, among the dead men! Bravo!”
Bailey Thompson’s struggle and discomfiture were watched by our friends
on the _Amaranth_ with interest at least as keen as ours. As the
_Saratoga_ fell away across their bows, and Thompson disappeared down
the companion-ladder, Captain Evans takes off his cap and leads his
brave fellows to a cheer. They cheer vociferously and derisively, the
ladies wave their handkerchiefs.
“Exit Mr. Bailey Thompson!” cried Brentin, and taking off his hat he
gave a loud “Hurray!” much to the astonishment of the man outside the
telegraph office, who stands there with a tray of colored pince-nez for
sale, as a protection against the Monte Carlo glare of white roads and
blue sparkling sea.
Just then up came Parsons and Hines.
“Well, is it all right? Has he gone? Have they got him?”
“Look for yourselves, gentlemen!” he cried, handing them the glass.
“Search earth and sky for vestiges of Mr. Bailey Thompson, of Scotland
Yard and Brixton. You will not find him. He has passed out of our ken.
He’s on his way to Majorca, Minorca, Ivaca, and the Balearic Isles
generally. For purposes of any active mischief he is as dead and
harmless as the dodo.”
“For the present—only for the present!” muttered Teddy, who was in his
usual pallid condition.
“And now,” said Brentin, with satisfaction, putting away his glasses,
“rebellion being dead, let us go back to the ‘Monopôle,’ enjoy our
breakfast, and pay our bill. Then we pack up and get our things on board
the yacht. Fortune smiles on us, gentlemen,” he added, “as ever on the
bold. Nothing, so far, could be better!”
From the terrace of the “Monopôle” we took a last look over the sea
before going in to breakfast. There was the _Saratoga_, rapidly growing
diminutive as she bustled far away out to sea to the right. Exit Mr.
Bailey Thompson, indeed!
Mrs. Wingham’s place, between Mrs. Sellars and Miss Marter, was empty.
They told Teddy the old lady had breakfasted early, and was down at the
rooms for a long afternoon’s play.
And Mr. Parsons was leaving? How sorry they were—how much they would
miss him! Certainly they would say good-bye to Mrs. Wingham for him. Oh,
we were all going to Bordighera in a friend’s yacht, and should most
probably not return. Well, good-bye. _Bon voyage!_
“Now she’ll think,” said the sagacious Teddy, as he joined us, “the
whole affair’s off, notwithstanding my telling her it was fixed for
Saturday. She’ll fancy we’ve got frightened, or been warned, and have
bolted. Good business!”