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!”