"What are you doing that for?" asked Dermot.
The police officer lowered his voice.
"Well, Major, we don't want these would-be murderers to know how their
trick failed. That's the reason I didn't pound the brute to a jelly on the
bed, for it would have made such a mess on the sheet. Now there isn't a
speck on it. I'll take the vase with me into my room and finish the cobra
off. In the morning I'll get rid of its body somehow. When these devils
find tomorrow that you're not dead, they'll be very puzzled. Now, the
question is, what are you going to do?"
"Going to bed," answered Dermot, continuing to undress. "There's nothing
else to be done at this hour, is there?"
The police officer looked at him with admiration.
"By George, sir, you've got pluck. If it were I, I'd want to sit up all
night with a pistol."
"Not you. Otherwise you wouldn't be in the place at all. Besides you are
qualifying for delicate little attentions like this." And Dermot flicked
the ash of his cigarette into the vase in which the cobra still writhed and
twisted.
"Oh, well, they haven't tumbled to me yet," said the young police officer,
making light of his own courage. "I suppose you won't make any fuss about
this?"
"Of course not. We've got no proof against any one."
"But do you think it wise for you to stay on here, sir? They'll only try
again.
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