It might have been only fancy; they were so far off he could
not trust his sight. Three minutes later he dropped down on the seat
with a sigh of relief. "That's all right!" he said.
"Oh," said Claire, "how can I ever thank you? You've saved me--oh,
what haven't you saved me from!"
"A bad hat--a regular bad hat," said Tinker gravely.
"You wonderful boy!" she cried, threw her arms around his neck and
kissed him.
Tinker wriggled uncomfortably. He often wished that there were not
quite so many women in the world who insisted on embracing him.
"Well, you're a kind of cousin, you see," he said by way of defence.
After a while Claire cooled from her excitement to the cold
understanding of her folly. Then she grew, very naturally, bitterly
unhappy, and to his horror Tinker heard the sound of a stifled sob.
"I think, if you'll excuse me," he said hurriedly, "I'll go to sleep."
And, happily for his comfort, his pretence at slumber was soon a
reality. It was no less a comfort to Claire: she had her cry out, and
felt the better for it.
When the carriage drew up before the Hotel des Princes, they found an
excited group about the doorway. Sir Everard Wigram was the centre of
it, raging and lamenting.
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