“Their smell, Aunt Em!”

“Penetratin’. Has Jean written to you lately?”

In Dinny’s bag was a letter just received. “No,” she said. The habit was growing on her.

“This hidin’ away is weak-minded. Still, it WAS her honeymoon.”

Her Aunt had evidently not been made a recipient of Sir Lawrence’s suspicions.

Upstairs she read the letter again before tearing it up.

A Turkish conversation book! This first indication of how their minds were working set Dinny’s working too. She remembered Hubert having told her that he had saved the life of a Turkish officer at the end of the war, and had kept up with him ever since. So Turkey was to be the asylum if—! But the whole plan was desperate. Surely it would not, must not come to that! But she went down to the Museum the next morning.

Adrian, whom she had not seen since Hubert’s committal, received her with his usual quiet alacrity, and she was sorely tempted to confide in him. Jean must know that to ask his advice about a Turkish conversation book would surely stimulate his curiosity. She restrained herself, however, and said:

“Uncle, you haven’t a Turkish conversation book? Hubert thought he’d like to kill time in prison brushing up his Turkish.”

Adrian regarded her, and closed one eye.

“He hasn’t any Turkish to brush. But here you are—”

And, fishing a small book from a shelf, he added: “Serpent!”

Dinny smiled.

“Deception,” he continued, “is wasted on me, Dinny, I am in whatever know there is.”

“Tell me, Uncle!”

“You see,” said Adrian, “Hallorsen is in it.”

“Oh!”

“And I, whose movements are dependent on Hallorsen’s, have had to put two and two together. They make five, Dinny, and I sincerely trust the addition won’t be needed. But Hallorsen’s a fine chap.”

“I know that,” said Dinny, ruefully. “Uncle, do tell me exactly what’s in the wind.”

Adrian shook his head.

“They obviously can’t tell themselves till they hear how Hubert is to be exported. All I know is that Hallorsen’s Bolivians are going back to Bolivia instead of to the States, and that a very queer padded, well-ventilated case is being made to hold them.”

“You mean his Bolivian bones?”

“Or possibly replicas. They’re being made, too.”

Thrilled, Dinny stood gazing at him.

“And,” added Adrian, “the replicas are being made by a man who believes he is repeating Siberians, and not for Hallorsen, and they’ve been very carefully weighed—one hundred and fifty-two pounds, perilously near the weight of a man. How much is Hubert?”

“About eleven stone.”

“Exactly.”

“Go on, Uncle.”

“Having got so far, Dinny, I’ll give you my theory, for what it’s worth. Hallorsen and his case full of replicas will travel by the ship that Hubert travels by. At any port of call in Spain or Portugal, Hallorsen will get off with his case, containing Hubert. He will contrive to have extracted and dropped the replicas overboard. The real bones will be waiting there for him, and he will fill up when Hubert has been switched off to a plane: that’s where Jean and Alan come in. They’ll fly to, well—Turkey, judging from your request just now. I was wondering where before you came. Hallorsen will pop his genuine bones into the case to satisfy the authorities, and Hubert’s disappearance will be put down to a jump overboard—the splash of the replicas, I shouldn’t wonder—or anyway will remain mysterious. It looks to me pretty forlorn.”

“But suppose there’s no port of call?”

“They’re pretty certain to stop somewhere; but, if not, they’ll have some alternative, which will happen on the way down to the ship. Or possibly they may elect to try the case dodge on the arrival in South America. That would really be safest, I think, though it lets out the flying.”

“But why is Professor Hallorsen going to run such a risk?”

“YOU ask me that, Dinny?”

“It’s too much—I—I don’t want him to.”

“Well, my dear, he also has the feeling, I know, that he got Hubert into this, and must get him out. And you must remember that he belongs to a nation that is nothing if not energetic and believes in taking the law into its own hands. But he’s the last man to trade on a service. Besides, it’s a three-legged race he’s running with young Tasburgh, who’s just as deep in it, so you’re no worse off.”

“But I don’t want to owe anything to either of them. It simply mustn’t come to that. Besides, there’s Hubert—do you think he’ll ever consent?”

Adrian said gravely:

“I think he has consented, Dinny; otherwise he’d have asked for bail. Probably he’ll be in charge of Bolivians and won’t feel he’s breaking English law. I fancy they’ve convinced him between them that they won’t run much risk. No doubt he feels fed up with the whole thing and ready for anything. Don’t forget that he’s really being very unjustly treated, and is just married.”

“Yes,” said Dinny, in a hushed voice. “And you, Uncle? How are things?”

Adrian’s answer was no less quiet:

“Your advice was right; and I’m fixed up to go, subject to this business.”

The feeling that such things did not happen persisted with Dinny even after her interview with Adrian; she had too often read of them in books. And yet, there was history, and there were the Sunday papers! Thought of the Sunday papers calmed her curiously and fortified her resolution to keep Hubert’s affair out of them. But she conscientiously posted to Jean the Turkish primer, and took to poring over maps in Sir Lawrence’s study when he was out. She also studied the sailing dates of the South American lines.

Two days later Sir Lawrence announced at dinner that ‘Walter’ was back; but after a holiday it would no doubt take him some time to reach a little thing like Hubert’s.

“A little thing!” cried Dinny: “merely his life and our happiness.”

“My dear, people’s lives and happiness are the daily business of a Home Secretary.”

“It must be an awful post. I should hate it.”

“That,” said Sir Lawrence, “is where your difference from a public man comes in, Dinny. What a public man hates is NOT dealing with the lives and happiness of his fellow-beings. Is our bluff ready, in case he comes early to Hubert?”

“The diary’s printed—I’ve passed the proof; and the preface is written. I haven’t seen that, but Michael says it’s a ‘corker.’”

“Good! Mr. Blythe’s corkers give no mean pause. Bobbie will let us know when Walter reaches the case.”

“What is Bobbie?” asked Lady Mont.

“An institution, my dear.”

“Blore, remind me to write about that sheep-dog puppy.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“When their faces are mostly white they have a kind of divine madness, have you noticed, Dinny? They’re all called Bobbie.”

“Anything less divinely mad than our Bobbie—eh, Dinny?”

“Does he always do what he says he will, Uncle?”

“Yes; you may bet on Bobbie.”

“I do want to see some sheep-dog trials,” said Lady Mont: “Clever creatures. People say they know exactly what sheep not to bite; and so thin, really. All hair and intelligence. Hen has two. About your hair, Dinny?”