They led him away then, quite broken, with Aunt Selina staring after him.  She never did understand.  I could have explained, but it was too awful.

On the steps McGuirk turned and took a farewell glance at us.  Then he waved his hand to the policemen and reporters who had gathered around.

“Goodby, fellows,” he called feebly.  “I ain’t sorry, I ain’t.  Jail’ll be a paradise after this.”

And then we went to pack our trunks.

Note from Max which came the next day
with its enclosure.

My Dear Kit—­The enclosed trunk tag was used on my trunk, evidently by mistake.  Higgins discovered it when he was unpacking and returned it to me under the misapprehension that I had written it.  I wish I had.  I suppose there must be something attractive about a fellow who has the courage to write a love letter on the back of a trunk tag, and who doesn’t give a tinker’s damn who finds it.  But for my peace of mind, ask him not to leave another one around where I will come across it.  Max.

Written on the back of the trunk tag.

Don’t you know that I won’t see you until tomorrow?  For Heaven’s sake, get away from this crowd and come into the den.  If you don’t I will kiss you before everybody.  Are you coming?  T.

Written below.

No indeed.  K.

This was scratched out and beneath.

Coming.