“He will have soon,” I said.  “That’s why I threw him in the river.  He’s bound to go back to the house for a change of clothes, and he’ll find the police waiting for him there.”

“That’ll be just right,” observed Tommy complacently.  “There’s nothing so good as a little excitement to stop one from catching cold.”

“Except lunch,” I added, as the taxi rounded the corner of Piccadilly and drew up outside the Cafe Royal.

What the manager of that renowned restaurant must have thought of us, I find it rather difficult to guess.  It is not often, I should imagine, that two untidy mud-stained men and a beautiful girl turn up at four o’clock in the afternoon and demand the best meal that London can provide.

Fortunately, however, he proved to be a gentleman of philosophy and resource.  He accepted our request with perfect composure, and by the time we had succeeded in making ourselves passably respectable he presented us with a menu that deserved to be set to music.

Heavens, what a lunch that was!  We ate it all by ourselves in the big empty restaurant, with half a dozen fascinated waiters eyeing us from the end of the room.  They were probably speculating as to whether we were eccentric millionaires, or whether we had just escaped from some private lunatic asylum, but we were all far too cheerful to care what they thought.  We ate, we drank, we laughed, we talked, with a reckless jubilant happiness that would have survived the scrutiny of all the waiters in London.

“I know what we’ll do, Joyce,” I said, when at last the dessert was cleared away and we were sitting in a delicate haze of cigar smoke.  “As soon as things are fixed up I’ll buy a good second-hand thirty-ton boat, and you and I and Tommy will go off for a six months’ cruise.  We’ll take Mr. Gow as skipper, and your little page-boy as steward, and we’ll run down to the Mediterranean and stop there till people are tired of gassing about us.”

“That will be beautiful,” said Joyce simply.

“I’ll come,” exclaimed Tommy, “unless the Secret Service refuse to give me up.”  Then he stopped and looked mischievously across at Joyce and me.  “It’s a pity we can’t ask Sonia too,” he added.

“Poor Sonia,” said Joyce.  “I am so glad you got her off.”

“Are you really?” asked Tommy.  “That shows I know nothing about women.  I always thought that if two girls loved the same man they hated each other like poison.”

Joyce nodded.  “So they do as a rule.”

“Well, Sonia loved Neil all right; you can take my word for it.”

Joyce laughed softly.  “Yes, Tommy dear,” she said, “but then, you see, Neil didn’t love her—­and that just makes all the difference.”