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Chapter Ten
I
It was about five minutes after leaving Le Bourget that Lance Fortescue
opened his copy of the continental1 Daily Mail. A minute or two later he
uttered a startled exclamation2. Pat, in the seat beside him, turned her
head inquiringly.
“It’s the old man,” said Lance. “He’s dead.”
“Dead! Your father?”
“Yes, he seems to have been taken suddenly ill at the office, was taken to
St. Jude’s Hospital and died there soon after arrival.”
“Darling, I’m so sorry. What was it, a stroke?”
“I suppose so. Sounds like it.”
“Had he ever had a stroke before?”
“No. Not that I know of.”
“I thought people never died from a first one.”
“Poor old boy,” said Lance. “I never thought I was particularly fond of
him, but somehow, now that he’s dead… .”
“Of course you were fond of him.”
“We haven’t all got your nice nature, Pat. Oh well, it looks as though my
luck’s out again, doesn’t it.”
“Yes. It’s odd that it should happen now. Just when you were on the
point of coming home.”
He turned his head sharply towards her.
“Odd? What do you mean by odd, Pat?”
She looked at him with slight surprise.
“Well, a sort of coincidence.”
“You mean that whatever I set out to do goes wrong?”
“No, darling, I didn’t mean that. But there is such a thing as a run of bad
luck.”
“Yes, I suppose there is.”
Pat said again: “I’m so sorry.”
When they arrived at Heathrow and were waiting to disembark from
the plane, an official of the air company called out in a clear voice:
“Is Mr. Lancelot Fortescue abroad?”
“Here,” said Lance.
“Would you just step this way, Mr. Fortescue.”
Lance and Pat followed him out of the plane, preceding the other pas-
sengers. As they passed a couple in the last seat, they heard the man whis-
per to his wife:
“Well-known smugglers, I expect. Caught in the act.”
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