"I can't say," replied Dr. Kyle, chuckling. "However, my inforrmant distinctly heard the girl's scream when set upon. My inforrmant declares that some scoundrelly dastard approached the poor girrul by telling her of his adventures while hunting big game in Africa. Weel, weel, then, that he offered her an emerald brrooch worth a fabulous sum. But, failing in his foul design, the rrascally skellum struck her over the head with a bottle o' whisky… "
"Great — Caesar's — ghost!" said Warren, his eyeballs slightly distended. "You — you didn't hear any names mentioned in the business, did you?"
"My inforrmant made no secret of it," Dr. Kyle answered philosophically. "She said the abandoned wretch and seducer was either Captain Whistler or Lord Sturton."
"And this woman's story is all over the boat?" asked Morgan.
"Oh, it will be," said Kyle, still philosophically. "It will be."
Dr. Kyle continued to talk on affably while the others attacked breakfast; and Morgan wondered what would be the ultimate version of the tale that would be humming through the Queen Victoria by midday. Evidently Dr. Kyle had not found any emeralds. There remained only the stony-faced Mr. Perrigord and his monocled wife. Well? The ship's miniature newspaper lay beside his plate, and he glanced over it between deep draughts of coffee, his eye slid over what appeared to be an article or essay on the back page, stopped, and returned to it. It was headed "renaissance du theatre," and under it appeared, "By Mr. Leslie Perrigord, reprinted by permission of the author from the Sunday "Times" of Oct. 25, 1932."
Skirling notes of harps celestial [began this effusion, with running start] sweeping one old reviewer, malgre lui, counterclockwise from his fauteuil, while nuances so subtle danced and slithered, reminding one of Bernhardt. Will you say, "Has old Perrigord gone off his chump this Sunday?" But what is one to say of this performance of M. Jules Fortinbras, which I journeyed to Soho to see? As Balzac once said to Victor Hugo, "Je suis etonne, sale chameau, je suis bouleverse." (Moliere would have said it better.) A thrilling performance, if that is consolation to the poor British public, but why speak of that? For sheer splendour and beauty of imagic imagery, in these subtle lines spoken by Charlemagne and Roland, I can think of nothing but that superb soliloquy in the fifth act of Cor-neille's tragedy, "La Barbe," which is spoken by Amourette Pernod, and begins, "Moname est un fromage qui souffle dans les forets mysterieuses de la nuit…." Or shall I speak of wit? Almost it approaches some of Moliere's gems, say, "Pour moi, j'aime bien les saucissons, parce qu'ils ne parlent pas frangais…
"What's all this?" demanded Warren, who was reading the article also and making strange whistling noises rather like Amourette Pernod's soul. "Do you see this attack of dysentery on the back page? Is this our Perrigord?"
Morgan said, "You have no cultural feelings, I fear. As Chimene said to Tartuffe, "Nuts" Well, you've got to get cultural feelings, old son. Read that article very carefully. If there's anything in it you don't understand, ask me. Because—" he checked himself, but Dr. Kyle had finished his last order of bacon and eggs and was rising genially from the table. Dr. Kyle bade them good morning, and said he had half a mind to play deck-tennis. Altogether he was so self-satisfied, as he strode away from the table, that in Warren's face Morgan could see newly awakened suspicions gathering and darkening. "Listen!" hissed Warren in a low voice, and stabbed out dangerously with his fork. "He says he didn't find any emerald when he woke up this morning…"
"Will you forget about Dr. Kyle?" said the exasperated Morgan. "It's all right; it simply wasn't his cabin, that's all. Listen to me…"
But an uneasy possibility had struck him. Dr. Kyle didn't find the emerald. Very well. Suppose the Perrigords hadn't found it, either? It was an absurd supposition, yet it grew on him. Assuming both parties to be entirely honest, what the devil could have happened to the emerald? They could not have missed it, either of them; he himself had heard the steel box bump on the floor. Again assuming them to be honest, it might mean that Peggy had mistaken the cabin. But this he doubted. There was shrewdness, there was certainty, in that girl's prim little face. Well — alternatively, it might mean that the Blind Barber was up to tricks. They had ample proof that he was somewhere close at hand during the wild business on C deck. He might very well have seen what happened. Later that night it would have been a simple matter to go after that emerald…
Irritably Morgan told himself that he was flying at theories like Warren. Warren, taking advantage of the other's blank silence, was going on talking with vehemence; and the more he talked the more strongly he convinced himself; so that Dr. Kyle's character had begun to assume hues of the richest and most sinister black. Morgan said, "Nonsense!" and again he told himself there was no sense to this doubt. The Perrigords had found the emerald, and that was that. But his real irritation with himself was for not thinking before of a simple possibility like that of the Blind Barber's having been in attendance. If those aesthetes really hadn't found the thing, after all…
"There's this that's got to be done," he said, breaking in on the other's heated discourse. "Somehow, we've got to ask Kyle a few questions, tactfully — whether he's a light sleeper, whether he keeps his door bolted at night… "
"Now you're showing some sense," said Warren. "Trip him up, eh? Mind, I don't say that necessarily he's the— the barber. What I do say is that fifty thousand pounds' worth of emerald, chucked in on him like that when he thought nobody'd be the wiser… Did you notice his expression? Did you hear the crazy story he told us, knowing the thing'd get so tangled up that nobody would be able to accuse…?"
"Read that article in the paper," the other ordered, tapping it inexorably. "We've got to make the acquaintance of the Perrigords, even if it's only a red herring; and you've got to be able to talk intelligently about nuances. What's the matter with your education? You're in the diplomatic or consular service, or whatever it is. Don't you have to know French to get in that?"
He had hoped that this crack would divert Warren. It did. The young diplomat was stung.
"Certainly I know French," he returned, with cold dignity. "Listen. I had to pass the toughest examination they can dish out, I'll have you know; yes, and I'll bet you couldn't pass it yourself. Only it's commercial French. Ask me anything in commercial French. Go on, ask me how to say, "Dear sir. Yrs of the 18th inst. to hand, and enclose under separate cover bill of exchange, together with consular invoice, to the amt. of sixteen dollars (or perhaps pounds, francs, marks, lire, roubles, kopecks, or kronen) and forty-five cents (or perhaps shillings, centimes, pfennigs.
"Well, what's the matter with you, then?"
"I'm telling you, it isn't the same thing. The only other French I know is some guff I remember from preparatory school. I know how to ask for a hat which fits me, and I know how to inquire my way in case I should feel a passionate desire to rush out and visit the Botanical Gardens. But I never had the least desire to go to the Botanical Gardens; and, believe me, if I ever go into a hat-shop in
Paris, no pop-eyed Frog in the world is going to sell me a lid that slides down over my ears… Besides, not having a sister who's a shepherdess kind of cramps my conversational style."
"Hullo!" said Morgan, who was paying no attention. "It's begun. Good work. She thought of it… "
Down the broad polished staircase into the dining-saloon came the tall and majestic figures of Mr. and Mrs. Leslie Perrigord; well-groomed, moving together in step. And between them, talking earnestly, walked Peggy Glenn.