A rustic bridge invited me, and I stood and smoked upon it, listening
to the ripple of the half-golden, half-shadowy water, watching the
revolutions of the green old wheel. I had laid out my plan of action. On
my return to the inn I would insist on an interview with Miss Falconer,
and would tell her that either she must return with me to Paris or that
the police of Bleau--I supposed it had police--must take a hand.
My metamorphosis into a hero of adventure, racing about the country,
visiting places I had never heard of, coolly assuming the control
of international spy plots, brutally determining to kidnap women if
necessary, was astounding to say the least. That dinner in the St. Ives
restaurant rose before me, and I heard again Dunny's charge that I
was growing stodgy with advancing years. Suppose he should see me
now, involved in these insane developments? He might call me various
unflattering things, but not stodgy--not with truth. I chuckled
half-heartedly, my last chuckle, by the by, for a long time. Unknown to
me and unsuspected, the darker, more deadly side of the adventure was
steadily drawing near.
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