"That's him to a T," said Friend Othniel. "I'd know him among a thousand."
For a moment Marchmont said nothing as he encountered the full force of the cruel disillusion, and then with painstaking precision he turned and kicked the tramp up the entire flight of cabin stairs.
"Now," remarked the Bishop, "perhaps you'll allow us to go free."
"No!" cried the journalist, slamming the door. "I've wasted heaps of cash and no end of time over this wild-goose-chase, but the _Daily Leader_ shall have its scoop yet! If you aren't conspirators, I'll make you so, in spite of yourselves! You _shall_ be Spanish spies!"
IN WHICH THE BISHOP EATS JAM TART, AND MISS MATILDA HUMBLE-PIE.
"Now," remarked the Bishop to Miss Arminster, as Marchmont quitted the cabin after this last astounding remark, "Now I'm certain he's mad."
"Oh, no," replied the lady, "it's merely journalistic enterprise. I don't blame him for being disappointed. It must be hard to find that we're not conspirators, after all."
"You dear stupid old Joe!" she exclaimed. "You haven't the remotest inkling of what American journalism means. It's sensation first, last, and altogether. Think of a bishop, and an English bishop at that, posing as an agent of the Spanish secret service, and eloping with an actress on somebody else's yacht. Why, I can shut my eyes and see the headlines. They're almost certain to print them in red ink. There's fame for you!"
"But why should he wish to print it if it's not the truth?"
"Truth! My dear Bishop, who said anything about truth? We were speaking of news, and--journalistic enterprise."
At this moment the door again burst open, and Marchmont flung into the cabin.
"There!" he said, with a tone of triumph, "we've sighted an American steamer down channel, and have hoisted the Spanish flag. We're pursuing her, and very presently we shall be captured, and you'll be surrendered."
"I suppose," began the Bishop, "that, to a man so devoid of moral consciousness as you appear to be, no arguments of mine--"
"Don't waste your breath," broke in Miss Arminster. "They wouldn't."
"Why, I'm sorry to cause you any inconvenience," said the journalist amiably, "but you see, my paper's simply panting for sensation, and when they hear about this little racket they'll sell extras till they can't see straight."