curiously. "By the way, you had something to do with that show, didn't you?"
"A little," smiled Hugh. "Just a little."
"Police bound to catch 'em again," continued the other. "Can't hide yourself these days."
And once again Hugh smiled, as he drew from his pocket the piece of paper:
"Only au revoir, my friend; only au revoir"
He glanced at the words written in Peterson's neat writing, and the smile broadened. Assuredly life was still good; assuredly…
"Are you ready for dinner, darling?" Quickly he swung round, and looked at the sweet face of his wife.
"Sure thing, kid," he grinned. "Dead sure; I've had the best appetiser the old pot-house can produce."
"Well, you're very greedy. Where's mine?"
"Effects of bachelordom, old thing. For the moment I forgot you. I'll have another. Waiter—two Martinis."
And into an ash-tray near by he dropped a piece of paper torn into a hundred tiny fragments.
"Was that a love-letter?" she demanded with assumed jealousy.
"Not exactly, sweetheart," he laughed back. "Not exactly." And over the glasses their eyes met. "Here's to hoping, kid; here's to hoping."
THE END
Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld.,
London and Aylesbury.
