“This Mandeville, now. It is a convention, eh? A local convention?”
“Convention?” Fairchild repeated.
“I mean, like our Gretna Green. You ask a lady there, and immediately there is an understanding: saves unnecessary explanations and all that.”
“I thought Gretna Green was a place where they used to go to get marriage licenses in a hurry,” Fairchild said suspiciously.
“It was, once,” Major Ayers agreed. “But during the Great Fire all the registrars’ and parsons’ homes were destroyed. And in those days communication was so poor that word didn’t get about until a fortnight or so later. In the meantime quite a few young people had gone there in all sincerity, you know, and were forced to return the next day without benefit of clergy. Of course the young ladies durst not tell until matters were remedied, which, during those unsettled times, might be any time up to a month or so. But by that time, of course, the police had heard of it—London police always hear of things in time, you know.”
“And so, when you go to Gretna Green now, you get a policeman,” the Semitic man said.
“You’ve Yokohama in mind,” Major Ayers answered as gravely. “Of course, they are native policemen,” he added.
“Like whitebait,” the Semitic man suggested.
“Or sardines,” Mark Frost corrected.
“Or sardines,” Major Ayers agreed suavely. He sucked violently at his cold pipe while Fairchild stared at him with intrigued bewilderment.
“But this young lady, the one who popped off with the steward. And came back the same day. . . . Is this customary with your young girls? I ask for information,” he added quickly. “Our young girls don’t do that, you know;
