As a matter of fact, half stupefied by the agonies
of the night, he had forgotten the precise spot where he had left
his own bag, and had picked up in its stead one belonging to the
wife of a sporting gentleman on his way to some races at Longchamps.
Desiring to smuggle a few "weeds," and deeming that the presence of
such articles would be less likely to be suspected among a lady's
belongings, the sporting gentleman had committed them to his
companion's keeping. Hand-bags, as a rule, are "passed" unopened,
and such would probably have been the case in the present instance
had not Quelch's look of panic excited suspicion. The real owners
of the bag had picked up Quelch's which it precisely resembled,
and were close behind him on the gangway. The lady uttered an
exclamation of dismay as she saw the contents of her bag spread
abroad by the customs officer, but was promptly silenced by her
husband. "Keep your blessed tongue quiet," he whispered, "If a
bloomin' idiot chooses to sneak our bag, and then to give himself
away to the first man that looks at him, he must stand the racket."
Whereupon the sporting gentleman and lady, first taking a quiet
peep into Benjamin's bag to make sure that it contained nothing
compromising, passed the examiner with a smile of conscious innocence,
and, after an interval for refreshment at the buffet, took their
seats in the train for Paris.
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