Napoleon was embarrassed; Illya seething. Waverly inquired, "You gentleman are dressed in tablecloths, why?"
Through clenched teeth the Russian spat, "Ask him, she is his—"
Napoleon smoothly cut in. "Bit of a misunderstanding, that. In order to get us out of a situation with a contact, I had to pretend to be a terrible gambler and literally lose the clothes off our backs before they would let us go. All our equipment was in the car."
Dubiously Waverly let them go.
Across town, Angelique laughed as she prepared to mail their clothes back to UNCLE headquarters.
Poison ivy, indeed…