lay a finger on him, never you fear. He has me at his back, and so have you.” With that he strutted through the French windows, flourishing his napkin and quite delighted at the prospect of a little simultaneous display of power, generosity and laudable cunning, before so select an audience.
“Sorry to trouble you, sir,” said a voice, “but I believe you have an assigned convict here of the name of Thomas Erichsen?”
“What name?” cried Lady Starkie.
“Hush, aunt!” whispered Claire.
“I have not,” said Daintree.
“You have not?” roared Nat Sullivan himself.
“I have not,” repeated Daintree blandly. “I had—but he has absconded from my service.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Any notion where he went?”
“Not the least.”
“And you don’t much care, eh?”
“Not a bit. May I ask a question in my turn?”
“Surely, sir.”
“Do you want him for the Castle Sullivan business?”
“We do.”
“I thought so. I’ve heard the idea. But who will you get to swear to him as having been there?”
“This man here,” said Nat. And Tom, in the background, listened curiously; he was cool enough now, and his air shameless; it was assumed for Claire’s benefit.
“I’m not so sure,” said the voice of Ginger, in a rather dejected tone.
“You were sure enough in your cups!”
“That’s another thing.”
