The amateur crime
Date: 2024-01-10T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Humorous stories; Detective and mystery stories

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The amateur crime

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Title: The amateur crime

Author: Anthony Berkeley

Release date: January 10, 2024 [eBook #72675]

Language: English

Original publication: Garden City, NY: Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc, 1928

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/72675

Credits: Brian Raiter

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AMATEUR CRIME ***

The Amateur Crime
by

A. B. Cox

Contents

| Prologue
I. | The Nesbitt Combination
II. | From Cocktails to Criminology
III. | Mr. Priestley Is Adventurous
IV. | Red Blood and Red Ink
V. | Confusing the Issue
VI. | Adventures of a Pair of Handcuffs
VII. | Inspector Cottingham Smells Blood
VIII. | Two into One Will Go
IX. | George Says Nothing, Much
X. | Laura Surpasses Herself
XI. | Perspicacity of a Chief Constable
XII. | Mr. Priestley Becomes an Uncle
XIII. | Cynthia Begins to Smile
XIV. | Interesting Scene in a Tool-Shed
XV. | Various People Get Busy
XVI. | Mr. Priestley Bursts a Bombshell
XVII. | Awkward Predicament of Some Conspirators
XVIII. | Mr. Priestley Solves His Last Problem

to
my sister

Prologue

The young man waved his arms violently. “You’re a cabbage!” he shouted. “A turnip! A vegetable marrow! A—” He paused. “A snail!” he concluded, relinquishing this horticultural catalogue.

Mr. Matthew Priestley blinked at him mildly through his glasses. “Am I, Pat?” he asked, not without surprise.

“Yes, you are.” From his stand upon the hearthrug the young man contemplated his host with extreme severity. “How old are you, Priestley?” he demanded at length.

“Thirty-six,” apologised Mr. Priestley.

“Thirty-six!” repeated the young man with remarkable scorn. “And what do you think people would take you for?”

“Thirty-five?” hazarded Mr. Priestley optimistically.

“Certainly not!” said the young man sharply. “Sixty-five, more like.”

“Oh, no, Pat,” protested Mr. Priestley, pained.

“At least sixty-five,” rejoined the young man firmly. “And no wonder. Do you know what you are, Priestley?”

“Well, yes,” said Mr. Priestley, a little doubtfully, “I’m a cabbage, and a vegetable-marrow, and a snail, and——”

“You’re a limpet!”

“A limpet as well?” said Mr. Priestley, with distress. “Now, what makes you say that, Pat?”

“Well, look at you!” observed the young man shortly.

Mr. Priestley obeyed. “I seem much the same as usual,” he ventured.

“That’s the whole point!” the young man said with force. “You’re always much the same as usual. Always!”

“I wear a different suit nearly every day,” Mr. Priestley protested wistfully.

“You know what I mean. Look at you—thirty-six, and as set and unenterprising as a man of sixty! Why don’t you move out of your rotten little rut, man? Move about! See life! Have adventures!” The young man ran a sensitive hand through his rather long black hair.

Mr. Priestley looked round the cosy bachelor room in the cosy bachelor flat; if it was a rut, it was a remarkably pleasant one. “It’s curious how restless love seems to make a man,” he observed mildly.

The young man stamped violently several times up and down the room. “I’m not restless!” he exclaimed loudly. “I’m happy!”

“I see,” replied Mr. Priestley with humility. “Have another drink, won’t you?”

The young man manipulated the decanter and siphon. “I do hate to see a man vegetating,” he growled into his glass.

“I suppose it’s the result of getting engaged,” Mr. Priestley meditated. “That sort of thing must be upsetting, no doubt.”

“It makes a fellow so happy, he wants to make his friends happy, too,” the young man condescended to explain.

“But I am happy, Pat! Remarkably happy.”

“You’re nothing of the sort,” snapped the young man.

“Aren’t I?” queried Mr. Priestley in surprise. “Well, I certainly thought I was.”

“Oh, yes,” said the young man with remarkable bitterness. “You think you are, of course. But you’re nothing of the sort. How can you be? Is a cabbage happy? Why don’t you live, man? Get about! Fall in love! Have adventures!”

“But adventures don’t happen to me.”

“Of course they don’t. Because you never let them. If you saw an adventure coming, you’d shut both eyes and wrap your head up in a rug. You’re turning into a regular hermit, Priestley: that’s what’s the matter with you. And hermits have a habit of becoming most confoundedly dull.”

Soon after that the young man took his leave; and quite time, too.

After his departure Mr. Priestley sat for a few moments turning over in his mind what had been said. Was it true that he was getting into a rut? Was he a turnip? Was he in danger of becoming a hermit, and a confoundedly dull hermit at that? He looked round his comfortable room again and sighed gently. Certainly most of his interests were concentrated in the flat—his books, for instance, and his china, and his collection of snuff-boxes. It was equally certain that, with a comfortable income which precluded his having to work for his living, and a valet who looked after him better than a nurse, he found himself very much more comfortable in his home than out of it. But did that necessarily mean that he was a snail?

“Poof!” observed Mr. Priestley with mild decision. “Ridiculous! Pat has just become engaged, to, as I understand, a charming and beautiful girl, and his whole world is upset. Out of the exuberance of his spirits he wants to upset everybody else’s world as well. Hermit, indeed.”

And he reached happily for his Theocritus.

Thus, regardless of his doom, the little victim played.

Chapter I.
The Nesbitt Combination

On a certain soft evening in early April, Guy Nesbitt of Dell Cottage, Duffley, Oxfordshire, was engaged in wrestling with his dress-tie.

Dress-ties did not take kindly to Guy. When a dress-tie found itself encircling a collar belonging to Guy a devil entered into it. All dress-ties were like this with Guy. They knew he had met his master, and they became as wax in his hands. They melted, they drooped, they languished, they slid, and the means they employed to prevent the ends of their bows from ever coming even were a manifestation of the triumph of matter over mind. A South African negro, seeing a dress-tie pursuing its eel-like antics in Guy’s impotent hands would have had no hesitation in falling down on his knees and worshipping it on the spot, and quite rightly; one of Guy’s dress-ties could have given pounds to any of the ju-ju’s of his native land and disposed of him in half a round.

Giving up the unequal struggle, Guy dashed the victorious excrescence to the floor, where it lay chortling gently, whipped another out of the open drawer in front of him and strode to the door which separated his dressing-room from his wife’s bedroom, muttering naughtily to himself as he went. At the risk of becoming tedious, he must try to give some idea of his appearance during the second-and-a-half occupied by his journey.

Guy Nesbitt was a thin, tall man, almost an attenuated tall man, and he carried himself just about as badly as a man can. His rather narrow shoulders were invariably bowed like those of Atlas, and between them his small, half-bald head shot forward at such an angle that, although he was nearly always taller than his interlocutor, he gave the impression of peering up at anybody he happened to be addressing over his rimless pince-nez. In spite of the ribald observations of one of his wife’s friends, Guy was not old; a mere thirty-one. But he had looked exactly as he did now (which was forty-five) for the last five years, and would probably continue to do so for the next twenty. The other part of the candid friend’s remark was not inapt; he did look exactly like a vulture, but a thoroughly benign and good-tempered old vulture at that. Guy had never lost his temper in his life, a matter which had caused his parents (he was an only son) considerable satisfaction —for parents are notoriously short-sighted folk—and his old nurse an equal perturbation.

For the rest he was delicate, but refused to admit it; possessed of a private income with which he was generous beyond reason or logic; not so much of a recluse as might have been expected, considering the scholarly nature of his chief hobby, which was the minor poets of the seventeenth century; and he wielded a nifty brassie and a surprisingly ferocious tennis-racket. His manner was as much of a contradiction as most of his other attributes; at times he was as prim and precise as the maiden aunt of a Dean, at others he verged on the Rabelaisian. He had a pretty wit, and he could make up his mind quickly.

“Blessed were the Picts and Scots, Cynthia,” he observed wistfully, closing the door meticulously behind him. “They may have had trouble at times with their sporrans, perhaps, but what is a mere sporran?”

Cynthia, seated in a kimono before her dressing-table, smiled at him over her shoulder; she had a particularly sweet smile. She was a tall, graceful girl of twenty-three, who bore every promise of turning later into that most delightful of creatures, a charmingly gracious woman. Gracious women are of two widely opposite kinds, one the most adorable and one the most fell of their sex, and it is the presence or absence of charm which makes or mars them. There was no fear of Cynthia falling into the latter category.

Guy and Cynthia had been married for two years, which period had been passed during the winters at Guy’s old home in Lincolnshire and in the summers at their riverside cottage in Duffley, a quiet little village on the Thames nearly mid-way between Oxford and Abingdon (it was called a “cottage”). To outward appearances they were as incompatible as a couple may well be, and they were extremely happy together. That shows the value of outward appearances.

“A sporran, darling?” Cynthia repeated. “Don’t try to make me answer that; you know how I hate admitting ignorance. All my life I’ve wondered what a sporran is, and never had the courage to ask. It seemed to be a thing that any decently educated person ought to know, like French verbs, or what Edward the Somethingth said to the lady whose garter he picked up, and that sort of thing. What is a sporran, Guy?”

Her husband stroked his chin reflectively. “Isn’t it something you wear in your bonnet?” he hazarded.

“No, dear,” Cynthia told him gently. “That’s a bee. Well, never mind about sporrans. Let’s get this grim piece of work over.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “I’ve been expecting you for the last ten minutes.”

“I nearly did it myself to-night,” Guy said ruefully, handing her the strip of black devilry, which instantly ceased to be diabolical at all and, assuming an air of almost offensive rectitude, permitted Cynthia to do with it as she would. “I must have got the ends within an inch of each other at least half-a-dozen times.”

“There!” Cynthia stepped back and regarded her handiwork complacently. “Not so bad for a first shot, I fancy. You are a ridiculous old butterfingers, aren’t you?” She kissed the ridiculous old butterfingers lightly on the end of his long nose and resumed her seat.

“Well, well,” said the old butterfingers, and moved towards the door. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Oh, don’t go, Guy. You’re practically ready, and there’s heaps of time. Sit down and smoke a cigarette and watch me make myself beautiful; there are some cigarettes in the box on the mantelpiece.”

“Sure you don’t mind, in here?”

Cynthia smiled at her husband again. If good manners never won fair lady, they must have often come very near it. It warmed Cynthia’s heart to reflect that this husband of hers was just as courteous to her now, after two years of marriage, as on the very first day he ever met her; how many women could say the same?

“As a very great treat, I think you might be allowed to, for once,” she said, in a tender little voice that matched her smile, feeling like a mother, and a wife, and a lover, and a sister, and all sorts of other things as well towards this adorably helpless person, so infinitely inferior to herself and at exactly the same time so infinitely superior, whom she had elected to marry. “Now watch, and I’ll show you what happens to sandy eyebrows when they get into my toils. It’s supposed to be hopelessly bad policy, I know, but I have no secrets from you, darling; not even toilet ones.”

“I won’t have my wife’s eyebrows insulted,” Guy retorted, dropping his long, lean frame into an arm-chair. “They’re not sandy, they never have been sandy, and they never will be sandy.”

“My dear old Guy,” laughed Cynthia, taking effective steps to clear the brows in question of any lingering imputations of sandiness, “you’d never notice if they were, so don’t pretend you would. Why, I don’t believe you could even say off-hand what colour my eyes are.”

“My dear!” exclaimed her husband, with righteous indignation.

“Well—what colour are they then?”

Guy shifted a trifle uneasily in his chair. “A—a sort of greeny-brown,” he said, somewhat defiantly.

“Commonly called hazel. Is that what you mean?”

“Hazel,” Guy nodded with some relief. “Yes.”

“Guy, you’re hopeless!” Cynthia laughed. “What sort of a husband do you think you are? Really! Not to have the faintest idea of the colour of his own wife’s eyes! Well, you might have said blue and been complimentary at any rate.”

“Do you mean to say they’re not hazel?” her husband inquired.

Cynthia nodded with emphasis. “I should hope I do! They’re gray, my poor child. If you don’t believe me, ask George to-night. I shouldn’t call George a particularly observant man, but I think his powers will probably have carried him that far. Guy, I think you’d better begin rather hurriedly to talk about the weather.”

Guy began to laugh instead. He had a curious and rather fascinating laugh. He laughed with a kind of guilty air, as if he knew he were doing something he shouldn’t, but for the life of him could not help it. His laughter was subdued but hearty, and reminded one irresistibly of a small boy stealing jam.

“I meant gray,” said Mr. Guy Nesbitt, stealing jam.

Cynthia became engrossed in the intricacies of her beautifying operations and the conversation languished.

Guy was the first to break the silence. “Looking forward to this evening, darling?” he asked.

“Mps,” Cynthia murmured absently, busy with her comb. “Quite. I want to meet Dora’s fiancé. I’d like to see her married, I must say; though when it’s going to happen, goodness knows. In her last letter, she said quite cheerfully that Pat couldn’t even raise the money for their furniture yet, and apparently she saw little chance of his ever doing so. Are you?”

“Very much. If Laura is anything like Dora (and being her sister I take it she will be) we ought to have an amusing evening. This fellow Pat Doyle sounds quite an entertaining sort of chap, too. I’ve never met a journalist before, least of all an Irish journalist. The combination ought to prove remarkable.”

Cynthia turned round to look at her husband. “You are a funny old thing, you know,” she observed with a smile.

“So you frequently tell me, my dear. Why particularly in this instance?”

“Well, you’re so unexpected. I should have expected you to hate meeting strangers, but you positively revel in it.”

“Of course I do! I collect strangers. What you never seem to realise, my otherwise admirable Cynthia, is that I am profoundly interested in the human animal. I like to observe his little squirmings and watch his reactions to all the ordinary, and still more to the extraordinary things of life. And the more strangers I meet, the more I recognise what a lot there is still to learn.”

“I’m glad I’m not a psychologist,” Cynthia returned. “It must be awfully uphill work.”

“All women are psychologists,” retorted her husband sententiously. “They may not know it, but applied psychology is part of their stock-in-trade.”

“Humph!” Cynthia did not encourage her husband to air his views upon women, about whom she considered he knew less than nothing. She allowed him to call himself a psychologist because she was a kind and tactful girl, but her own word for him so far as her sex was concerned would have been idealist; and she had enough sex-loyalty not to wish to shatter his illusions. “Well,” she went on, changing the subject brightly, “hold the magnifying glass over Mr. Doyle as much as you like, but I’ll just give you one word of advice before it’s too late; beware of Laura, and beware of Dora, but above all, beware of Laura and Dora!”

“And now,” said Guy, throwing the end of his cigarette carefully out of the window, “explain that somewhat cryptic remark.”

“Well, you know Dora, don’t you?”

“Fairly well, I thought. She’s stayed with us—what was it?—three times during the last two years.”

“Well, you know how demure and soulful she always looks, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, when all the time it would disappear just as fast as you could put it in with a shovel?”

“I know that Dora’s appearance is a little deceptive, yes,” gravely agreed Guy, who knew all about his wife’s ideas regarding his own views on her sex but would not have let her guess so for the world.

“Dora, if she wants to, can be a little demon,” amplified Cynthia frankly. “Well, Laura is a worse edition of Dora, that’s all. Apart, they’re demons, but together they’re positively diabolical. I warn you.”

“Query,” Guy murmured, “when is a demon not diabolical? When it’s apart.”

“And when should a purist cease to be pure?” smiled Cynthia. “In his wife’s bedroom, I should have thought, at least.”

“Mrs. Nesbitt, you shock me,” Guy cackled in high glee. Cynthia’s occasional lapses into pleasant vulgarity he privately considered one of the most delightful things about her. He uncurled his length from the chair. “Well, thank you for warning me. I’ll be on my guard against this diabolical pair. Let us hope that the presence of her fiancé will be a restraining influence upon Dora’s demoniacal tendencies.”

“What a lot of long words my husband does know,” confided Cynthia to her hair-brush. “Where are you off to now? They’re not due for another twenty minutes.”

“I must see about the wine,” Guy replied reverently, and retired. Wine and his wife were about the only two things in this world which Guy really respected.

Chapter II.
From Cocktails to Criminology

It has been said, no doubt with truth, that to make her mark in these overcrowded days a girl must adopt a line and stick to it like grim death. She may be languid, she may be sporting, she may be offensively rude, she may be appealing and doll-like, and she will find success, but she must never be purely and simply herself; that is the fundamental mistake. Such criticism could not be applied to the Misses Howard.

Our semi-civilised conventions have their disadvantages. In a more enlightened age the Misses Howard might have been compelled to go through life wearing horns and a barbed tail and a passable imitation of cloven hooves, as a timely warning to unsuspecting strangers not to take these two innocent-looking maidens at their face-value, charming as that was. Dissimulation, as practised by the Misses Howard, was more than a fine art; it was a hobby. The unsuspecting stranger (of the male sex, of course; female strangers are never unsuspecting, and the more strange they are the more they suspect), catching sight of one of the Miss Howards would swell his manly chest and pat his manly back, and say to himself in his manly tones: “Here is a poor, frightened little thing who looks at me as if I were a god. Who knows? Perhaps I am a god. I am very much inclined, when this helpless and pretty little thing looks at me like that, to think that I am. Out with the lance and armour! Are there any dragons about? Or, failing dragons, mice? At any rate, it is palpably up to me to protect this delectably timid small person from something, and that pretty quickly.”

And twenty minutes later, if he had interested the timid little thing enough, he would be wondering ruefully if certain words of hers really meant what they had implied, or whether they were intended to convey something quite different and impossibly puncturing to the gallant balloon of manly self-esteem. If he did not interest her enough, he would be wondering still more ruefully how he could ever have imagined such a frigid block of sarcastic ice to be incapable in any conceivable way of looking after, not merely herself, but the entire universe as well. The Misses Howard may perhaps most politely be described as “stimulating.”

Nevertheless, the family of Howard had done one good thing—it had brought Guy and Cynthia together. George Howard, the brother of the two demons, a large, solid person, as unlike his sisters as the elephant is unlike the mosquito, had been Guy’s worshipping disciple at school and at Oxford; Dora and Cynthia had been “best friends.” George had now taken for the summer the cottage at Duffley whose garden adjoined Guy’s. He had moved in only three days before this story opens, and the fate of Duffley still hung in the balance.

Laura, younger than her sister by a couple of years, had shouldered the responsibilities of her lot and the family’s orphanhood by accompanying her brother George about wherever he went and insisting upon keeping his house for him, much to that simple soul’s sorrow; on the whole, George would rather have had his house kept for him by a combination of Catherine of Medici and Lucretia Borgia than by either of his sisters. George was the sort of person who likes to know where he is at any given moment, and has a rooted distaste for dwelling upon a volcano. Laura, therefore, was now wasting her gifts upon the rustic life of Duffley. Dora, investing her talents to better purpose, had gone on the stage, where she had confidently expected to multiply them sevenfold.

The British stage is a mass of curious contradictions. It lives upon humbug, it exploits humbug, and it is itself more taken in by humbug than any other institution. If a penniless actress lays out her last ten shillings in a pair of new gloves and a taxi-fare to the stage-door, the stage will say to itself as often as not: “Ha! Trixie Two-shoes is going about everywhere in taxis now, is she? She must be getting on, that girl. There is evidently more in her than I thought. I must have her for my next show, at double the salary she’s getting now. Good!” The stage then buys four cigars at five times the price it usually pays, in order to impress the financial magnate after lunch with the strength of its own position.

But when humbug was offered to it of such rare and golden quality that its exploitation should have been repaid a hundred times over, the stage would have none of it. Dora had been unable to penetrate further into the legitimate drama which she felt herself called upon to enrich, than the stage-door-keeper’s box. Refusing to be beaten (she had no need of the money, but she was determined by hook or by crook to get on that elusive stage), Dora had abandoned the idea of legitimate drama for the time being and expressed her willingness to adorn the chorus of a revue, comforting herself with the reflection that not a few great stars have risen from the musical ranks to legitimate heights. She had at once obtained the position to which her face and figure entitled her and, after a year in the provinces, had for the last six months been adorning the front row of the Mammoth Chorus at the Palladeum. She was now rehearsing a production which was to open the following week, and so was at liberty to present herself, with her fiancé, at a Saturday to Monday housewarming for George.

Only once had either of the Miss Howards met their match, and that was when a certain Mr. Doyle irritably besought Dora five months ago, within twenty minutes of the opening of their acquaintance, “for Heaven’s sake not to try and pull that moon-eyed, baby-voiced stuff on him. He wasn’t born yesterday, and he didn’t like it. In short, her artless behaviour left Mr. Doyle not only cold but weary.” Dora was so taken aback that for the first time in her life she became perfectly natural with a complete stranger.

The sequel was inevitable. When four days later the volatile Mr. Doyle, touched apparently by this complimentary change of front, besought her hand in marriage, she kept her whirling head long enough to accept him on the spot; she felt she had at last met her master, and the sensation though novel was by no means disagreeable. Since then they had remained engaged, in spite of all expectations to the contrary, their own included; indeed, Mr. Doyle had gone so far as to inform his fiancée with engaging candour that this was the longest period he had ever been engaged to any one girl. They were now even beginning to think quite seriously of the possibility of really getting married some day if Mr. Doyle could scrape together the capital on which to do so.

In spite of Cynthia’s assurances, Guy Nesbitt was not on hand when the quartet arrived. With a face like a high priest’s he was performing solemn rites in the dining-room over a bottle of port and a decanter, and Cynthia had to welcome her guests in the drawing-room alone.

She cast a somewhat anxious eye at the sisters as they marched decorously into the room on the heels of the maid’s announcement, their faces both ornamented with the same shy smile. Although she had known them most of her life and Dora was her closest friend, Cynthia never felt she knew quite where she was with them. In their rear walked Mr. Doyle, and behind him George Howard. Where Cynthia cast one anxious eye, George cast two. In spite of his elder years George knew even less where he was with his sisters than Cynthia did.

“Hallo, Lawks!” smiled their hostess. “Hallo, Dawks!” To be admitted to the circle of those permitted to address them by these pseudonyms, which George had invented with simple pride at the age of eight, was the highest privilege the two had to bestow. The number so allowed was, for each sister, twelve, and no one fresh could be received within the magic circle until a suitable vacancy occurred. Cynthia did not know Laura nearly so well as her sister (the two had, very wisely, been despatched to different schools), but was permitted the honour in view of her position as Dora’s Best Friend.

Laura smiled her greeting, and Dora motioned Mr. Doyle forward. “This is my appendage, Cynthia,” she remarked frankly.

“He isn’t much to look at perhaps,” Laura amplified, “but his heart’s in the right place; at least Dora says it is, we haven’t had him vetted yet. His name’s Henry Aloysius Frederick Doyle, but never mind about that; he answers much better to the name of Pat. He’s Irish.”

Mr. Doyle, a slightly-built, clean-shaven young man with black hair, turned in the act of bowing to Cynthia. “I’m not!” he said indignantly.

“Yes, you are,” his future sister-in-law contradicted him. “How could you help being, with a name like Pat Doyle?”

“But my name isn’t Pat Doyle. It’s Henry Doyle. Pat’s a nickname, goodness knows why. I’ve told you a hundred——”

“Stop arguing and shake hands with the lady,” the younger Miss Howard interrupted. “Goodness knows your manners are bad enough at the best of times without making them worse. And we did want you to shine a little to-night. That’s why I told you not to speak with your mouth full, like you usually do, and not to wave your fork in the air when you argue. Of course you’re Irish!”

With a somewhat heightened colour, which told Cynthia that these candid remarks were not without their substratum of truth, Mr. Doyle completed his greeting of his hostess. George, trying hard to look as if he had heard nothing, took Cynthia’s slim hand in his huge paw and told her, with remarkable earnestness, that it had been a topping day; he also expressed his hopes that it would be as topping a day to-morrow. One gathered that George was being what he considered tactful.

Cynthia embarked upon her share of the unnatural conversation that takes place between intimate friends before a rather formal dinner.

Glancing surreptitiously at Dora from time to time, Cynthia decided that the engagement had done her friend good. Dora seemed quieter. Not subdued, or anything like that, but tasting her enjoyment of life with a rather more detached, almost a lazy air. In contrast with the more bounding spirits of Laura, Dora seemed far older than the two years between them would have suggested. Cynthia was conscious of a certain relief.

Five minutes later Guy came hurrying in and paused for a moment in the doorway, blinking benignly round through his glasses. “Sorry I’m so late,” he apologised. “Hallo, Dawks. Good-evening, Laura. The bottles were disgustingly dirty, and I had to go and wash again.”

“Never mind washing, in a good cause,” murmured Mr. Doyle, and came forward to be introduced.

The cocktails which Guy then proceeded to dispense played their usual helpful part (what would civilisation be without its cocktails?) and the little gathering moved into the dining-room. Dora seemed, for such a self-possessed young woman, acutely conscious of the presence of her fiancé, on trial, as it were, before the Best Friend, and was in consequence refreshingly innocuous; Laura, who was only meeting Guy for the third time and was not yet quite sure what to make of him, was equally tentative. Cynthia was able to take her seat at the bottom of the table with the happy confidence that her party was going to be a success. Cynthia was more right than she imagined.

The dinner proceeded much in the way of all dinners, and the ice, to which the cocktails had already dealt a sound blow, was gradually smashed into diminishing smithereens.

As the port was placed before him and the maid withdrew, Guy glanced with satisfaction round his dinner-table, on whose polished mahogany the candles in their heavy silver stands gleamed softly. The meal had gone off well, the guests had been exceedingly cheerful, and Cynthia, in a black velvet gown which admirably enhanced the white beauty of her arms and shoulders, was looking her very best. The host in Guy was full of content, the husband no less so. He poured himself out a glass of port as the decanter reached him from Dora, and beamed round once more.

The young man Doyle had pleased Guy particularly. He had shown signs of a tendency towards argument which was most gratifying; rather voluble, perhaps, and occasionally a little excitable, but good, sound argument; and if there was one form of mental exercise which Guy’s soul loved beyond all others it was argument. In the dreamy contentment that follows a perfectly good dinner he listened to Cynthia rolling the conversational ball at her end of the table and meditated on a new subject to attract Doyle’s attention from his fiancée.

“By the way,” Cynthia was remarking to George, “Monica and Alan are coming to stay with us the week after next for a few days, George. We must get up a river picnic for them.”

“Thank goodness,” Laura took it on herself to reply. “We’ve only been in Duffley three days, but I’m bored stiff with the place already. I feel wasted here. There are possibilities in a river picnic.”

“Oh, rather,” George murmured dutifully, concealing his blenches in his port-glass.

As Cynthia’s brother and sister, and consequently Guy’s brother and sister-in-law, Alan and Monica undoubtedly had every claim upon him; but he was not unduly elated at Cynthia’s news. Duffley was a nice, peaceful place, where one could get a tolerably good game of golf and smoke a quiet pipe or two in the country round. It seemed a pity to have it turned upside down, even for a few days.

George had met Alan and Monica before; the meeting had taken place two years ago, but George would never forget it. “Oh, rather,” he repeated sadly, wondering whether there were many frogs in the neighbourhood of Duffley. The last time they had met, Alan had done his best to endear himself by putting a frog in George’s bed. Neither George nor the frog had altogether appreciated the jest. George had had something of a fellow-feeling for frogs ever since.

Cynthia turned to her other neighbour. “Will you still be here, Pat?” “Mr. Doyle,” had been dropped, on command of the sisters, before the champagne had been round twice.

“I doubt it,” observed Laura darkly, from the other side of the table. It appeared that Laura had taken it upon herself to entertain the gravest doubts as to the engagement lasting for more than a few hours in the immediate future, and to give voice to those doubts upon every possible occasion. When she was not doing this, she was trying to correct, with an air of patient despondency, certain faults which she professed to see in her future brother-in-law’s manners. “For,” as she told her indignant sister, “you may be going to marry him, but I’ve got to be a sister to him; and I never could be a sister to a man who eats and drinks at the same time.”

“No, Cynthia,” said Mr. Doyle with emphasis. “I shall certainly not be here then. Why?”

“What a pity! I couldn’t help thinking you’d be so useful,” Cynthia smiled. “I mean, anybody who can manage to engage himself to Dawks—well, Monica ought to be child’s-play to him.”

“Are you meaning,” inquired Mr. Doyle carefully, “that you want me to get engaged to your sister as well as Dawks? I’m a very obliging man, and I do my best to be kind to my friends, but the trouble is that I’ve never been properly trained as a bigamist. Besides, don’t you think Dawks might have something to say about it?”

“She will,” interposed that young lady’s sister promptly. “She’ll say, ‘Get to it, my lad, and step briskly!’ That’ll be all right, Cynthia. He’ll be free for Monica days before she comes.”

Cynthia laughed tactfully and proceeded with her exposition. “No, I wasn’t meaning that you need go so far as to get engaged to her; what I did think, though, was that you might be able to—well, what is known as handle her, perhaps.”

“Man-handle her, more like,” put in the faithful Greek chorus.

George stifled another groan in his wine-glass. The last time he had encountered her, Monica had handled him, with a hose-pipe, causing him to dance at her commands as madly as any dervish on the front lawn of her house half an hour before the ceremony, on pain of having his wedding garments drenched, what time the wedding-guests stood about in the background feebly beating their breasts; and all because he had bestowed a brotherly tug at the thick plait which hung down her back—a thing to George’s ideas that was almost inevitable etiquette in the presence of a flapper. George had singularly few pleasant recollections of Monica.

Mr. Doyle seemed to have caught something of the spirit of George’s apprehensions. He groaned faintly and ran a hand through his long black hair. “You don’t mean—you don’t mean that your sister is anything like——?” He paused. “Oh, no!” he said with decision. “You must put her off. Remember, Dawks might come down for another week-end, and then there’d be three in the place at a time. Duffley couldn’t stand it. The whole village would vanish in a cloud of blue smoke, and we with it. You must put her off, Cynthia.”

“Are we,” Laura inquired carefully of her sister, “are we, do you think, being insulted, Dawks? Are we being insulted by this wretched Sein Feiner you’re trying to smuggle into the family?”

An apprehensive look appeared on Cynthia’s face. She loved the sisters, and she loved to see them ragging; but she did not love the idea of their ragging across her dining-room table.

Help came from an unexpected quarter. Dora, who had been unwontedly silent during the last half-hour, smiled lazily at her sister. “When are you going to grow up, Lawks?” she asked gently.

Nobody but herself could have posed such a question and retired unscathed. As it was, Laura was half out of her chair before she sank back feebly, turning incredulous eyes up to the ceiling.

“The woman’s nerve’s all gone,” she murmured in a faint voice. “She’s got soft. It’s young love, I suppose. She’ll be asking people to call her Miss Howard soon. Well, Heaven preserve me from ever getting engaged, that’s all!”

“On behalf of the sex,” remarked Mr. Doyle piously, “which I so unworthily represent, Amen!”

Laura’s pose altered abruptly, and her eyes sparkled with battle, but before she could translate her feelings into action, Guy, catching a frantic signal from his wife’s eyes, interposed with a change of subject. “Cheer up, George,” he said hastily. “What’s the matter? You look as if you’d committed a murder, and couldn’t decide what to do with the body.”

“I think he’s just seen a ghost, and is being tactful about it,” said Laura, her attention successfully diverted.

George, roused abruptly from his meditations concerning frogs and hose-pipes, smiled wanly. “Me? I’m all right,” he muttered.

“I think you’ve guessed it, Nesbitt,” remarked Doyle, regarding his future brother-in-law closely. “He has committed a murder. How awkward for him! Now I come to look at him, he has got a criminal face, hasn’t he? I wonder what type he belongs to. The Palmer, would you say? He has that look of chubby innocence. But no, he’s too big and massive. Now, who…? Smith, perhaps? Smith was always the gent, wasn’t he?” He prattled on happily. Thus great events from causes small do spring.

In Guy’s eyes an eager light had appeared, the light that must have gleamed in Stanley’s eyes when he pretended to greet Livingstone so nonchalantly. “I say, Doyle,” he said in hushed tones, “you’re not—you’re not interested in criminology, are you?”

The light leaped into Doyle’s eyes. He looked at his host with reverence and awe. “Are you?” he asked, in the same cathedral-like voice.

“Yes. I’ve never met any one else who was before.”

“Neither have I!”

They gazed at each other in ecstasy.

“What’s your real opinion of the Thompson case?” Guy managed to whisper.

“I heard an awfully interesting theory about the Mahon case,” whispered Doyle at the same moment.

Cynthia coughed gently, “Have I caught your eye, Dawks? This, I think, is where we three gracefully retire.”

They did so.

“Do you think Seddon ought to have been convicted?” murmured Doyle, closing the door as absently as he had opened it.

“Have you read the MacLachlan trial?” murmured Guy absently, producing cigars. “The character of old Fleming is most absorbing. Of course he did it.”

They opened the flood-gates of their hobby and the long pent tide poured forth.

For a time George listened with interest, for murders, dash it, are interesting, say what you like. Then he listened with less interest, for murders, hang it, are a bit what-you-might-call boring, taken in the mass; a good juicy mystery with his morning-paper George enjoyed as much as any one, but one, in George’s opinion, was enough at a time. Besides, after a fellow had done some one in and been well and truly hanged for it, what on earth was there to go on yapping about? George listened with growing boredom.

“What about a foursome to-morrow morning, Guy?” said George. “We can get Dawks to make up the four. She doesn’t play at all too badly.”

“When are your sister and brother-in-law coming, Guy?” said George.

“I say, hadn’t we better be getting into the drawing-room?” said George. “They’ll be wondering what’s happened to us.”

He might have saved himself the trouble; for when two or three criminologists are gathered together, then is for them neither time nor space, sweetheart nor wife, necessity nor law.

They talked on.

“I say,” said George, nerving himself for a supreme effort, “I’m getting a bit fed up with all this chat about murder.”

Never once before in all his life had George so much as hinted that anything his elder and superior did, came to him the least little bit amiss; never before had the disciple ventured to criticise the master. At school where there were three years between them (and three years at school is an eternity) the small but beefy George, a stolid boy in those days, had worshipped, humbly adoring, at the shrine of Guy, the Head of his House. When Guy, who had only just scraped his second fifteen cap, came down as an old boy to find George captain of the school fifteen and runner-up for the captaincy of the cricket eleven, George had all but wept for joy to hear himself addressed almost on equal terms.

At Oxford, where Guy was a fourth-year man, the time of George’s fresherhood had been brightened and sanctified by the presence in the same town of his divinity. Had not George been permitted to be the humble instrument for bringing about Guy’s marriage with the only woman in this world remotely approaching worthiness, and had he not been rewarded beyond rubies by being allowed to be the great one’s best man—an honour he valued far more than the note from his captain announcing that he had been awarded a blue for rugger? Yet, after all that, here he was, red in the face and not unconscious of his epoch-making action, saying gruffly that he was getting fed up with all that chat about murder! Murder has turned people into revolutionaries before George.

The two ghouls paused in their banquet and turned glazed eyes upon George. Had they heard aright?

“Fed up?” demanded Doyle incredulously.

“Yes,” replied the mutinous George. “Too much of a good thing.”

“Too much?” repeated Mr. Doyle. He exchanged pitying glances with Guy.

“My dear chap,” that gentleman took up the tale, rather in the tones of one addressing a small and particularly foolish infant (thus do all criminologists address on this particular subject those who are not of their own persuasion, which accounts largely for their unpopularity.) “My dear chap, you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick. It isn’t the mere act of murder which interests us, it’s the state of mind of the murderer. The particular psychology, in fact, which finds its culmination in murder. The motives, the amount of premeditation, the lack of premeditation even more, the psychology of the victim, the network of circumstance, and a hundred other things—those are what makes murder the most absorbing of all psychological studies.”

“Oh!” said George. But he was impressed. George had never realised that murder had a psychology at all. George was learning things.

Guy saw that the faithful hound was beginning to think of coming once more to heel, and carried on with the good work.

He leaned back in his chair, joined his finger-tips and regarded his now uneasy disciple over his glasses with some severity.

“Let me put it in this way,” he said, striving conscientiously to speak in words of not more than one syllable. “Suppose you committed a murder, George. Suppose you were playing with the vicar, and he foozled his tee-shot to the last green and the whole match, and half-a-crown, depended on it; and suppose, unable to live in the same world with such bungling incompetence, you smote him on the head with one of your clubs, so that he died. Are you supposing all that?”

“Ye-es,” said George, supposing manfully.

“Well, what would interest us is not whether you smote him with your mashie or your niblick, or how much he bled, or whether his death-agonies removed any divots from the fairway. Nothing like that at all, George. Simply the state of your mind which showed you in one moment of blinding revelation that nothing short of murder was demanded by the situation.”

“But I’m not a murderer,” said George, putting his finger on the weak spot.

“No, George, at present you’re not; at least, so we hope. But if you ever happened to murder anybody, then you, yes, even you, George Howard, would be a murderer; and we should be studying the intricate psychology which caused you to snatch at your niblick and lay the vicar low just as eagerly as we now discuss the singular mentality of Mr. George Joseph Smith, who drowned a woman in her bath one minute and strummed on the organ in his sitting-room the next.”

“What he means,” Mr. Doyle chimed in, “is that the really interesting thing is the reactions of the ordinary person to the idea of murder. What he feels like,” he amplified kindly, “after he’s done it, in fact.”

“And before,” Guy amended.

“And before,” Mr. Doyle agreed. “Look, in short, upon this picture and on that. Mr. Howard before murder, same gent after murder. The cross marks the spot where the body was found.”

“So now do you understand, George?” Guy inquired.

“I think so,” George responded, trying to look as if he did. “You mean, you like probing into the mind of a chap who’s committed a murder?”

“In a nutshell!” approved Mr. Doyle.

“But unfortunately we have to do our probing at second-hand,” Guy lamented. “Or rather, we have to let others do the probing for us and then try to draw our own deductions. What wouldn’t you give, Doyle, for the chance to probe yourself? To psycho-analyse a murderer before the law got hold of him and messed his mind up?”

“Oh, don’t!”

“To have him under observation right from the time of the crime,” Guy gloated wistfully. “To know exactly what he thought and felt and did.”

“Don’t tempt me, Nesbitt! I’ll be getting George to murder you in a minute, if you go on like this. I promise I wouldn’t give you away, George, if you’d only let me psycho-analyse you afterwards.”

“That’s right,” Guy said. “George is just the person, of course. The ordinary man is far more interesting than your sordid murderer for gain or your mentally kinked. The reactions of the ordinary man to murder! That’s the crux of the whole thing. And so few murderers are ordinary men, unfortunately. What do you imagine he’d do, Doyle? I believe the ordinary decent man would go straight to the nearest police-station and give himself up.”

The light of argument kindled in Doyle’s eye. George’s heart sank.

“That depends on the circumstances. You must postulate those first. Do you mean, if the murder was a more or less unpremeditated one, and without witnesses?”

“Yes, certainly. Any circumstances you like. Your ordinary decent man’s impulse would be to give himself up at once.”

“Not he!” retorted Mr. Doyle with much scorn. “If there are no witnesses and no evidence against him, he’s going to make one arrow-flight for home and safety.”

“I don’t agree with you,” Guy hunched his head between his shoulders till he looked more like an ill-omened bird of prey than ever. His glasses and the top of his head shone with enjoyment. “I don’t agree with you. He wouldn’t stop to consider whether there was evidence or not. He’d assume that there must be; he’d take it for granted that he’d be found out. He’d give himself up, without hesitation. In a way, you see, it’s a shelving of responsibility, and the ordinary decent man avoids responsibility like the plague. Besides, he’d have too great a respect for the law.”

“Your ordinary decent man sounds to me uncommonly like a spineless worm,” retorted Mr. Doyle. “Now this is what he probably would do….”

The argument raged delectably.

It continued to rage.

It developed heat.

George’s heart sank till it could sink no further. He poured himself out another glass of port and recklessly consumed it side by side with his cigar, an action that would have caused Guy in his saner moments the utmost pain and distress; as it was he never even noticed it. George squirmed, he wriggled, he writhed. Seven times he said, “I say!” and seven times said no more.

“I say!” said George loudly for the eighth time. “I say, if you’re so jolly keen on knowing what the wretched chap would do, why on earth don’t you stage a murder and find out?”

George had a large voice. In spite of their preoccupation his words penetrated into the minds of the other two. They actually stopped arguing to look at him.

“Do what?” said Mr. Doyle.

“What do you mean?” asked Guy.

So far as he knew, George had not meant anything, except a desperate endeavour somehow to break the thick cord of this interminable argument, but desperation sharpens the wits and George saw in a flash what he must have been meaning. “Why,” he explained modestly, “carry out an experiment, of course. A psychological experiment,” he added with pride. “Not a real murder, of course. Just fix things so that a chap thinks he’s committed a murder, you see. Oughtn’t to be so difficult. You could hammer out half a dozen different ways of working it, Guy, with your gumption.”

They stared at him in respectful silence. George, who was by way of sharing their respect, stared back.

“By jove!” exclaimed Mr. Doyle softly. One gathered that the idea appealed to him. He looked at George with new eyes.

That gentleman obliged with another brain-wave. “Do you remember that time when you wondered what a Dean would do if he found a girl in his rooms after the coll. gates were locked, under the impression that she’d been invited to stay till morning, so to speak, Guy? Well, something like that.”

Guy, remembering his innocent curiosity on that point and the means he had taken to gratify it, began to laugh silently, stealing jam with every appearance of joyful guilt. Across his delighted vision strayed the germs of three separate and distinct plans for making an innocent citizen imagine that he had murdered a fellow. “The ordinary man’s reactions to murder, eh?” he chuckled. “It could be done. Upon my soul, it could! What do you say, Doyle?”

What Mr. Doyle should have said is: “Nesbitt, your cocktails were good, your champagne better, your port superlative. Of all have we drunk, and in consequence we are not a little elated. Let us realise the fact, and not toy with fascinating impossibilities.” He said nothing of the sort. What he did say, tersely, was: “Every time! Let’s!”

Guy jumped to his feet, grinning madly. “I think—yes, I think I see it! I shall want a female accomplice. Let’s go and hear what the others have got to say about it.”

They joined the ladies.

There, five minutes later, Guy was being accorded the highest honours, as an enlivener of the tedium of Duffley’s daily round, amid hearty shrieks which effectively drowned the one half-hearted dissentient voice in the room.

“Guy, I hand it to you,” Laura was shrieking. “And to mark the occasion I’m going to create a precedent. I’ve got no vacancy in my inner circle, but I must do something. I’m going to create an entirely extra place for you and make a baker’s dozen of it. Henceforth I am Lawks to you, and Lawks only!”

“Lawks it is!” beamed the gratified Guy, and winked broadly at his wife. “Thank you.”

That lady, watching his narrow back as he drew up chairs for the conference, had no difficulty in correctly interpreting the wink. It said quite plainly: “What price my ideas about feminine psychology now?”

With much ceremony and clinking of glasses (a bottle of Benedictine was specially opened for the occasion and ruthlessly carried into the drawing-room in defiance of all decent convention) Guy was sealed of the tribe of Howard.

“Oh!”

An exclamation from Mr. Doyle caused all heads to turn in his direction. He was smiting the back of a chair with clenched fist.

“I know the man for us!” cried Mr. Doyle. “The very fellow! As ordinary and decent as you like, and the sort of man whose reactions it’s almost impossible to predict. And it’d do him all the good in the world, too. He wants shaking up badly. It might be the saving of him to imagine for twenty-four hours that he’d killed a man. A fellow called Priestley….”

Chapter III.
Mr. Priestley Is Adventurous

To say that Mr. Priestley had been seriously perturbed by the vegetable accusations that had been hurled against him, would be to overstate the case; to say that he dismissed them immediately with complacent assurance from his mind, would be to trifle with the truth. During the few days that followed the young man’s visit Mr. Priestley was at some pains to prove to himself over and over again that he could not, by any stretch of imagination, be truthfully termed a turnip. The outburst he explained with complete satisfaction as the spasmodic attempt of a nervous mentality, disordered by love, to convert the whole world to its own way of thinking and being; and he put the whole thing out of his mind as unworthy of serious consideration, exactly forty-eight separate times.

Yet these baseless insinuations of our friends, dismiss, explain or shelve them as we will, have a habit of rankling. We know that they are baseless, because of course they are; but they rankle—perhaps out of their own sheer baselessness. It is extraordinarily annoying of them.

Without his quite realising the fact, a spirit of restlessness began to pervade the ordered round of Mr. Priestley’s daily life. He did things he had never done before. He snapped at his perfectly good man; he sniffed the spring air, while vague and foolish aspirations filled his bosom; several times he looked almost with distaste at the unoccupied chair on the other side of his hearth, instead of congratulating himself as usual on its emptiness; he conceived something approaching dislike for the pleasantly impossible idealism of Theocritus, and substituted the cynical Theophrastes as his bedside book.

On Saturday evening things reached a climax. Shattering into small fragments the record of years, Mr. Priestley shook the dust of his flat off his feet (or performed the motions of shaking dust off feet, in the total absence of the commodity itself) and went out to dine at a restaurant! No snail, Mr. Priestley felt sure, ever forsakes its house to dine at a restaurant. His vindication was surely complete.

The restaurant Mr. Priestley chose as the scene of this epoch-making meal was in Jermyn Street, a quiet, pretentious place, where the high-priestlike demeanour of the head-waiter amply justified the length of the bill. High-priestlike head-waiters are worth their weight in extras. Mr. Priestley, with a wisdom beyond his experience, allowed the high-priest to choose his dinner for him and his half-bottle of burgundy.

Now, Mr. Priestley did know something about burgundy, and his knowledge told him that this was very excellent burgundy indeed. So impressed was Mr. Priestley with the excellence of this admirable burgundy that he readily agreed to the high-priest’s suggestion that one paltry half-bottle was not enough for a man of palate. He had another half-bottle.

The high-priest was delighted with Mr. Priestley’s palate. He mentioned at the end of dinner, in the tones of one chanting a solemn anthem, that there was some Very Special Brandy in the cellars which even such a palate as Mr. Priestley’s would receive with awe and wonder. It was a Chance, the high-priest intimated, which would Not Occur Again. Mr. Priestley, now as mellow and glowing as an October sunset, fell in with the idea at once. He gave his palate its chance. The high-priest then chose Mr. Priestley a cigar, superintended the seven underlings who helped him into his overcoat, pocketed his remuneration with the air of one accepting alms for the deserving rich, and turned Mr. Priestley out into the night.

His very expensive cigar between his teeth, Mr. Priestley ambled down Jermyn Street, at peace with the world. His case was proved for the forty-ninth time, and now without a shadow of doubt; he was not a vegetable-marrow. Do vegetable-marrows dine alone in expensive restaurants, knowingly discuss palates with high-priests, and smoke the best cigars procurable? They do not.

“And neither, confound it!” observed Mr. Priestley aloud with sudden vehemence, “do snails!” And he winked surprisingly at a passing respectable matron. He was shocked at his action the next moment, but he was also guiltily pleased with it. Even Pat would admit that a hermit practically never winks at respectable ladies, even of safely mature years.

Mr. Priestley ambled on, feeling something like a cross between the devil and the deep blue sea.

The entrance to the tube station attracted his attention and he turned into it. It would be pleasant, he thought, to stroll through and have a look at the lights of Piccadilly Circus. For some reason obscure to him Mr. Priestley felt that he wanted lights, and plenty of them. He might even linger for a few minutes in Piccadilly Circus. It was a mildly devilish thing to do, he knew.

He took up his stand at the Circus entrance of the station and gazed benevolently out upon the scene, crowded with hurrying late-comers to the neighbouring theatres.

A lady with a very white nose and very red lips looked at him and diagnosed the two half-bottles under his waistcoat.

“Hullo, dear!” said the lady, with a winning smile.

Mr. Priestley started violently and plunged back into the station behind him like a rabbit into its burrow. The lady, diagnosing this time that she had failed to please, passed on. Mr. Priestley emerged again, properly ashamed of himself.

“That,” observed Mr. Priestley to himself, with considerable severity, “was the action of a snail. I ought to have returned that woman’s greeting and taken her off to some place of refreshment. A glass of port would probably have purchased her story, and I should have undergone an interesting and unprecedented experience. I should, in fact, as Pat counselled me, have had an Adventure. Never mind, the opportunity will probably occur again.” Which, as Mr. Priestley was communing with himself in the Piccadilly entrance of the Underground Railway, was no less than the truth.

As even Mr. Priestley had surmised, he had not long to wait. Almost the next moment a voice spoke at his elbow—a pleasantly modulated feminine voice this time, though not altogether free from irritation.

“Well, here you are at last!” said the voice. “I was beginning to think you never were coming. I’ve been waiting round about here for nearly twenty minutes.”

This time Mr. Priestley had better command of himself. He did not start violently, he did not bolt for the lift like a mole for its hill, he did not even pause to reflect upon what he was doing. He just turned round and gazed with interest at the pretty, flower-like face that was upturned to his and the innocent blue eyes, just clouded with what must have been pardonable exasperation. Then he smiled benignly.

Some sage has already put it upon record that circumstances alter cases. He did not add that some circumstances can take a case, jump on it, turn it inside out, roll it out flat and then build it up backwards; yet this is what his own circumstances were doing for Mr. Priestley’s case. A week ago Mr. Priestley would have raised his hat, turned a bright brick-red and stammered out to the owner of the trusting, flower-like face the error of her ways. As it was he descended blithely to such depths of duplicity as at that remote time he would have deemed incredible. This was his chance! This was to the life-stories of improper ladies over glasses of port as that burgundy had been to red ink! This was an ADVENTURE not merely with a capital “A” but in block letters a mile high! This was Heaven-sent Opportunity!

Wherein Mr. Priestley erred. It was not Heaven who had sent him the opportunity, but a much more unscrupulous agency.

“I’m exceedingly sorry I’m so late,” replied the adventurous Mr. Priestley, and continued to beam. Limpet indeed!

If this answer brought a tinge of astonishment into the girl’s eyes, if she lifted one cheek out of the fur in which it nestled as if incredulous that she had heard aright and wanted the remark repeated, if she then involuntarily stepped back half a pace and scrutinised Mr. Priestley’s face with something not unlike acute misgiving, if her delicately slender form finally quivered slightly and she bit her lip as one making violent and drastic efforts to control the muscles of her face—if these things happened, I say, then Mr. Priestley was far too occupied in admiring his own devilishness to notice them. He was the sort of person to shut both eyes and wrap his head up in a rug if he saw an adventure approaching him, was he? Huh!

By an impartial observer the girl might have been thought to pull herself together with an effort. “Well, now you are here,” she said, and her voice expressed nothing but asperity, “where can we talk?”

Mr. Priestley looked at the face of his unexpected companion and found that it was good. He looked round at the lights of Piccadilly and found that they were good. He bestowed a casual glance on the world in general, and found that it was good, too. “Talk?” he said. “I should think we might talk anywhere.” He looked round Piccadilly Circus again and his surmise was confirmed; it was simply full of places where this charming person and he might talk.

“We don’t want to be overheard, you know,” the charming person reminded him, with a touch of austerity.

Mr. Priestley was in entire agreement. “Oh, no. Of course not. Good gracious, no!” While he was still speaking he knew vaguely there was something he wanted to ask; the next moment he realised what it was. Why, after all, did they not want to be overheard?

“What about the lounge of the Piccadilly Palace?” suggested the girl, before he could frame the question.

“Admirable!” said Mr. Priestley with enthusiasm, his question completely forgotten before his interest in the particularly delightful way in which his companion’s brows just did not meet as she frowned her perplexity over this serious matter. The thought occurred to him that for all he knew the world might have been full of feminine brows that delightfully just did not meet when their owners were charmingly perplexed, and he had never noticed this remarkable phenomenon. The next moment he knew for a certainty that there was only one possible pair of brows that could behave like that and his life hitherto had not been really wasted after all.

The next coherent thing that Mr. Priestley knew was that he was sitting before a small table in the Piccadilly Palace lounge and ordering coffee. To the waiter’s bland assumption that liqueurs would be required as well the girl shook her head in a decided negative; and Mr. Priestley, who detested platitudes almost as much as false quantities, reminded himself that enough was as good as a feast, and shook his head in a decided negative too.

The breathing space before the coffee arrived gave Mr. Priestley time to collect his hitherto somewhat scattered wits and conquer the dream-like state of his mind. This was not an illusion, he pointed out to himself half-incredulously during his companion’s fortuitous silence; he really was sitting in the lounge of the Piccadilly Palace with a particularly charming young woman who was labouring under the impression that he was some one else. Whom she had mistaken him for, or what she wanted to talk to him about, he could neither imagine nor very much cared; for once in his life he was living only in the present. The explanations which must inevitably come later, would be awkward no doubt, but they could take care of themselves; in the meantime he was going to take unscrupulous advantage of the situation for just as long as he possibly could. Did somebody once mention the word “limpet”?

The coffee, which arrived with singular promptitude, helped Mr. Priestley to dispel the slight mistiness from his brain. Glancing covertly at his companion, he now consciously perceived what had before been an unconscious impression, that her prettiness had a quality of wistful charm which was particularly appealing. One saw at once that her dainty fragility was not fitted to cope with the harsh realities of this world. She needed looking after. Somebody, Mr. Priestley decided with mild indignation, ought to be looking after her; it was extremely remiss of somebody not to be looking after her. A feeling that was not exactly paternal, not at all brotherly, and perhaps not so entirely disinterested as its owner imagined, took possession of him: he would look after this eminently protectable small person. The feeling was, in fact, that of the prowling knight-errant who comes across the prepossessing maiden who has been stripped and tied to the tree by robbers; he rescues her with eager zest, but he does not look upon her like a father.

At present the distressed maiden’s childlike features wore an expression of stern resolve which sat upon them, Mr. Priestley thought, with pathetic incongruity. She was quietly, but even to his uninitiated eyes, expensively dressed, in pleasant contrast with his late encounter, whose clothes had cleverly combined the maximum of loudness with the minimum of cost. Hitherto, except for a few murmured commonplaces regarding sugar and milk and such trifles, she had not spoken since they entered the place. Mr. Priestley awaited her next words with ill-suppressed eagerness.

She sipped at her coffee, set down the cup and turned to look at him fairly and squarely. “You know,” she said with a certain charming diffidence, “you’re not quite the sort of person I expected.”

“No?” beamed Mr. Priestley warily, drawing rapid deductions.

“In fact, if it hadn’t been for the carnation, I should certainly never have recognised you.”

Mr. Priestley threw a surprised glance towards his buttonhole. Certainly there was a carnation in it, of a rather uncommon mauve hue; equally certainly there had been none when he left his own carnationless abode. Evidently the high-priest must have set it there, as a floral tribute of respect to such an uncommon palate. Mr. Priestley’s heart warmed still more towards that dignitary.

“What sort of person did you expect, then?” he ventured, greatly daring.

The girl laughed a little awkwardly. “Oh, well, you understand, surely. I mean, we needn’t really have met there after all. I wouldn’t mind being seen with you anywhere.”

“Thank you,” murmured the mystified Mr. Priestley. The tone was that of a compliment, but it seemed to him that the words might have been better chosen.

“You see you’re not—well, not very like the description you gave me in your letter, are you?”

Mr. Priestley affected to consider the point. “Well, not very much, no,” he admitted.

“I shouldn’t call you sturdy and powerful-looking, six-foot high and forty round the chest,” pursued the girl with innocent candour.

“Did I say that?” murmured Mr. Priestley, aghast.

“You know you did,” said his companion with gentle severity. “Why?”

Mr. Priestley hesitated. This was becoming very difficult; very difficult indeed. “Well,” he floundered, “because I thought—because it seemed more likely that—because I hoped——” He drew his handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his brow.

“You mean, because you thought I should be more likely to give you a favourable reply in those circumstances?”

“Exactly!” Mr. Priestley said with relief. “Yes, that was it. Exactly.”

“It wasn’t very straight of you,” the girl commented in severe tones, but there was just a suspicion of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

Mr. Priestley caught sight of the smile and took heart. “No,” he agreed contritely, drawing more deductions, “I—I’m afraid it wasn’t. I see that now.” Had the unhappy girl been answering an advertisement in a matrimonial paper, or what? Most decidedly she wanted all the looking after she could get. What were her brothers doing? Perhaps she hadn’t got any. Then what had her parents been doing not to give her some? Most certainly somebody was very much to blame.

“But after all, I suppose one could hardly expect straightness from you, could one?” surprisingly remarked the object of his solicitude.

Mr. Priestley started slightly. “No, no,” he assented, playing for safety. “No, of course not. Naturally. I quite understand that.”

There was a short pause while the girl sipped her coffee with a thoughtful air and Mr. Priestley tried hard to imagine who he was supposed to be, what the favourable reply had been about, and why one could hardly expect straightness from him. He did not succeed.

“Well, I suppose you’ll do,” remarked the girl at last. She spoke without any degree of enthusiasm. It appeared that she had been debating the point.

“Er—good,” said Mr. Priestley, also with a marked lessening of enthusiasm. It may have been that the effects of that second half-bottle were beginning to wear off, it may have been due to the unexpected complication in what had promised to be a straightforward little episode, but the truth was that the Adventure was rapidly losing its light-hearted aspect. For some reason Mr. Priestley felt sure that quite serious developments were in the wind, and he was wondering uneasily just how he was going to cope with them.

The girl turned to him with a quick movement. “Did you bring your tools with you?”

“My—my tools?” echoed Mr. Priestley in bewilderment. Surely he had not been mistaken for a plumber?

“Yes, I should love to see them. But I suppose you don’t carry them with you usually, do you?”

“Oh, very seldom,” said Mr. Priestley firmly. “Very seldom, indeed.” A dim recollection came to him. “My—er—mate, you know,” he murmured.

“What a pity! Still, it doesn’t really matter, because you won’t be wanting them to-night, as I told you. I can show you a very easy way into the house.”

Mr. Priestley’s blood, already somewhat chilled, dropped several further degrees. For a moment he stared dumbly at his pretty companion. Then he took his bull by its horns.

“Perhaps you had better tell me the—the whole story,” he said a little huskily.

The girl’s eyes widened in innocent surprise. “But I told you everything, in my letter!”

“Yes. Oh, yes,” mumbled Mr. Priestley. “Quite. But I—I think you had better tell me again, you see. Letters are never very satisfactory, are they? I mean, perhaps I should understand it all rather more clearly if you—if you told me again, you know!”

“I thought I’d made it clear enough,” said the girl in puzzled tones. “We were to meet here to discuss anything necessary, and then go down in my car to break into the house while they’re away for the week-end. What else is there you want me to tell you?”

Mr. Priestley’s blood retired a little farther into cold storage. His mild blue eyes remained fixed on his companion’s face in a horrified stare. “To—to break into the house?” he repeated faintly.

“Of course! I explained it all in my letter. Why, you’re looking quite startled.”

Mr. Priestley strove to pull himself together. “Well, it—it is a little bit startling, isn’t it?” he said with a ghastly attempt at a smile. “Just a little bit. To—to break into the house, so to speak.”

The girl’s lips twitched and she turned her head hastily away, apparently to contemplate with every sign of interest an under-developed palm-tree in an opposite corner of the lounge. When she turned back to Mr. Priestley again a moment later her face once more wore an expression of guileless bewilderment.

“But what else should I want to hire a burglar for?” she asked, reasonably enough.

Mr. Priestley swallowed. “Of course, there—there is something in that,” he conceded, endeavouring to assume the air of one debating an interesting point. “Oh, yes, I quite see that.”

He cast a hunted glance round. The Adventure was beginning to assume the aspect less of an adventure than a nightmare. Protection! There was certainly one person at their table who required all the protection that could be got, but it was not the one at his side; appearances, Mr. Priestley reflected wildly, are deceptive. The sooner, in fact, that he got away from this promising young criminal, the better. Should he make a plain bolt for it at once, or——

“Well, is there anything else you want to ask me?” the girl’s voice broke into his agonised thoughts. “Because, if not, hadn’t we better be making a move? We don’t want to be too late getting back to London, do we? I’ll pay the waiter, of course, if you will call him.” And she began to refasten the fur at her throat and collect her various impedimenta by way of a hint that was anything but mistakable.

“After all, I can tell you the details just as well in the car going down, can’t I?” she added.

Mr. Priestley moistened his dry lips. The second half-bottle was very little in evidence by this time. “Er—Miss—er—Miss—er——”

“Spettigue, I think you mean,” the girl rescued him gently. “Didn’t you get that letter I wrote you at all, Mr. Mullins?”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Priestley-Mullins replied hastily. “Yes, of course, Miss—er—Spettigue. But I don’t—that is——”

The girl came as near to showing impatience as a creature so demurely angelic could. “It’s half-past nine already,” she said plaintively. “We really must not waste any more time, Mr. Mullins. Isn’t that our waiter over there? Do please call him.” And she fixed Mr. Priestley with a look that should have caused even milder men than he to write fiercely to The Times about the dragon-shortage in these degenerate days, and can’t something be done about it? She also rose to her feet with a decision that left no room for further delay.

Reluctantly, very reluctantly, Mr. Priestley followed suit. Somebody (he never knew who) paid the waiter, and they made their way out into the open air again.

“The car’s in a garage up in Maida Vale,” remarked the girl. “We’d better take the Underground.”

“I think, perhaps a taxi——?” suggested Mr. Priestley, in whose harassed brain a plan was now beginning to form.

The girl looked at him with appealing helplessness. “I do so much prefer the Underground,” she said wistfully. “It’s so much safer.”

They took the Underground.

Now Mr. Priestley was a chivalrous man. Even as his Adventure had turned out, he could not bring himself to slip out of it, as he easily could have done already, without a word of explanation. He had been responsible for this tangled skein; it was equally his responsibility to leave it in a properly tidied condition. Without going so far as to make a clean breast of his own baseness, he yet felt it necessary to explain that this evening at any rate was a close season for burglars. For the rest, any faint feelings of curiosity which he might have entertained regarding the ultimate intentions of this charming but nefarious maiden had now been quite swamped in the urgency of his anxiety not to be mixed up in them. Even to himself Mr. Priestley could not but admit that he would make a remarkably poor burglar.

A taxi would have suited his purpose much better, but he had to do the best he could with the Underground. Fortunately, there were only one or two people in the carriage, and Mr. Priestley was able to deliver himself with no fear of being overheard. “Miss Spettigue,” he began, in the low, firm voice of the Man who will Stand No Nonsense. “Miss Spettigue, I fear I have some unpleasant news for you.”

The lady curved a small hand round an invisible ear. “Did you say anything?” she inquired at the top of her voice.

Mr. Priestley abandoned the low, firm voice and substituted a louder edition. “I fear I have some unpleasant news for you,” he roared above the din of the train. Chatty conversation on the Underground is best carried on between a retired fog-horn and a bull from Bashan.

“If it’s your tools,” the girl howled cheerfully, “I——”

“It isn’t my tools,” bellowed Mr. Priestley with a testiness which quite surprised him. “It’s this. I regret that I shall be unable to—er—to break into this house for you.”

“Unable to——?” The girl looked at him with astonishment. “What do you mean?” she shrieked.

At that moment the train considerately slowed down to approach a station, and the interchange of ideas became easier.

“What do you mean?” repeated the girl, in more normal tones.

Mr. Priestley wriggled uneasily. “I—I’ve reformed, you see,” he mumbled.

“You’ve what?”

“Reformed. I—I’m not going to burgle any more.”

“Why ever not?”

Mr. Priestley fixed a hot gaze on an advertisement containing some pithy advice to mothers. “I—well, I don’t think it’s right,” he said uncomfortably.

There was a short but tense silence. The train shrieked to a standstill.

“I think I’d better get out here,” murmured Mr. Priestley unhappily, still learning what to do if he ever became a mother.

“Here’s your ticket,” muttered Mr. Priestley, now blushing miserably all over.

The silence full of unutterable things into which his companion had retired, her face turned away from him, was broken by a curious sound. It was not exactly a sniff, nor was it a gulp, and it certainly was not a choke; but in some curious way it combined the essential elements of all three. Mr. Priestley, taken by surprise, turned and looked at her. As he did so he gave a violent start and quite forgot that the train was on the point of moving on from the station where he had planned a graceful exit. Her shoulders were heaving, and she was fumbling blindly in her ridiculous little bag. The next moment she drew out a still more ridiculous handkerchief and applied it to her eyes.

“God bless my soul!” Mr. Priestley petitioned.

“Good gracious me!” observed Mr. Priestley.

“Well, I never!” Mr. Priestley remarked.

“Here, I say, you mustn’t do that!” ordered Mr. Priestley, aghast.

“Please don’t cry!” Mr. Priestley implored, and incontinently abandoned all lingering thoughts about exits.

The girl turned a woebegone face towards him, her lower lip trembling pathetically. Anything more utterly helpless and appealing could hardly be imagined. “Then you’re—you’re going to leave me in the lurch, Mr. Mullins?” she asked, in a funny, shaky little voice.

Mr. Priestley squirmed. It appeared to him with sudden and unexpected force how remiss it was of him not to be a burglar. It was not playing the game. Here was this charming girl expecting to meet her burglar, never dreaming that she was doing anything else but meet her burglar; and there was Mr. Priestley going about the place not being a burglar at all. His conduct had been despicable, that was the only word for it—despicable!

Still, the fact remained that however contemptible it might be of him, he certainly was not a burglar. “I’m afraid I must,” he replied uneasily.

The girl had recourse to her handkerchief. “I think it’s most c-cruel of you,” she quavered. “After all, you can’t c-count my letters as b-burgling! I think you’re horrid. And after you p-promised, and I sent half your f-fee in advance.”

“My f-fee?” repeated the bewildered Mr. Priestley. “Your l-letters?”

“Yes. Oh, how can you be so unk-kind?”

That is just what Mr. Priestley was wondering. But he was wondering a large number of other things as well. In any case, he really had to find out more about this mysterious business first. “Look here,” he said desperately, while the train gathered speed, “will you tell me the whole thing from beginning to end as if I didn’t know anything about it at all? I—I’m afraid I must have been mixing you up with—with somebody else. I have—er—so many clients, you see.”

Bright hope was dawning in the face which the girl turned eagerly towards him. “And you’ll get my letters for me, after all?”

“I can’t make any promises,” returned Mr. Priestley cautiously, “but let me have the—er—the facts of the case first.”

With renewed animation the girl proceeded to give them to him, telling her story as much as possible between stations but not sparing her larynx even in the tunnels.

Mr. Priestley listened to her with mingled feelings of relief and uneasiness. The relief was due to the fact that she was not, after all, the promising young criminal for which he had taken her, the uneasiness to the realisation that the matter was very much more complicated than he had ever imagined; she was planning to commit burglary, true, but it was, so to speak, a white burglary.

Briefly, the story which Mr. Priestley learnt with gradually increasing indignation was to the effect that Miss Spettigue had, when a younger and exceedingly foolish virgin, written certain letters to a man who had turned out subsequently to be, if not a wolf, at any rate a fox in sheep’s clothing.

“Nothing actually wrong in them, Mr. Mullins,” she explained with touching earnestness. “Just—well, just silly.”

“Oh, quite,” murmured the temporary Mr. Mullins uncomfortably. “Precisely.”

The disguised fox had since married; but, on being approached with a view to surrendering his trophies of Miss Spettigue’s girlish affections, had refused point-blank to do anything of the sort. Matters had begun to look serious, for the Fox, this time approaching Miss Spettigue himself, had hinted very plainly that, if she wished to regain possession of her compromising effusions, she must be prepared to pay for the privilege, and very handsomely too.

Miss Spettigue here paused to dab her eyes again and gulp.

“The scoundrel!” exclaimed the horrified Mr. Priestley.

The lady flashed him a look of gratitude and continued her tale.

A sum had actually been named, far in excess of her possibilities, and there the matter had rested—with the unpleasant threat in the background that if the money were not paid by a certain date “steps would be taken.” As the money could not be paid, it was obviously a matter of some urgency to obtain possession of the letters by other means.

“You’re engaged to be married, no doubt?” observed Mr. Priestley half-abstractedly, when the recital was finished. His thoughtful gaze was fixed on the opposite side of the carriage and he seemed to be debating his immediate future. “Of course, you could hardly tell your fiancé. I quite see that.”

His companion bestowed on him a sidelong and somewhat anxious look. Mr. Priestley was far too preoccupied to notice it, but a shrewd observer might have summed it up as the calculating look of one hastily reckoning up comparative values.

If this were so, she made her decision with commendable promptitude. “I am not engaged to be married, Mr. Mullins,” she said, “I am married.”

“God bless my soul!” exclaimed Mr. Priestley, looking at her with new eyes. Somehow he could not associate this flower-like innocence (as it was after all now plainly proved to be) with the coarsities of married life. She might be of marriageable years, no doubt she was; but in essence she was still a child—and children are forbidden to marry. So should grown-up children be too, thought Mr. Priestley, reluctantly abandoning in favour of its legal owner the rôle of protector which he had been beginning again to contemplate. The next instant he hastily picked it up again. Of course she needed protection, now more than ever —from this coarse, obtuse, gross-bodied husband of hers! Mr. Priestley had no doubt at all that this must be a correct description of the absent Mr. Spettigue. “God bless my soul!” he repeated.

With intuitive genius the girl must have been following the line of his thoughts. A frightened look appeared in her lustrous eyes as she gazed at him in mute entreaty.

“That’s the awful part, you see,” she faltered. “If I were single it—it wouldn’t matter so much, but my husband——!” She choked. “He’d never forgive me!” she concluded mournfully—but not so mournfully that she was precluded from watching Mr. Priestley’s reactions to this interesting piece of news very closely indeed. It was the crux of the situation, and if Mr. Priestley did not recognise the fact, his companion certainly did.

A genuine tear glistened in her eye. “My life would be ruined!” she quavered. “Absolutely ruined!”

Mr. Priestley drew a deep breath. “Don’t distress yourself, my dear young lady, please,” he implored. “We—we must see what can be done. Tell me the rest of the story.”

The girl drew a deep breath also. In an artistically shaky voice she proceeded to tell the rest of her story.

It had been impossible to confide in her husband. “He —he wouldn’t quite understand,” she explained with pathetic dignity, and Mr. Priestley nodded violent agreement. So, she had decided that the best thing to do was to get some one to burgle the Fox’s lair for her, and had therefore inserted the newspaper advertisement which Mr. Mullins had answered. Their subsequent correspondence was, of course, fresh in his memory. In the meantime she herself had not been idle. She had found out where the letters were kept and, by an intelligent system connected with a certain inmate of the household itself, was able to keep herself informed of its master’s doings. Through this medium news had reached her of the projected week-end visit and the consequent closing of the house, and she had arranged the raid accordingly.

“I see,” observed Mr. Priestley very thoughtfully. “Yes, all this certainly must make things very much clearer.”

The recently married Mrs. Spettigue leaned towards him and impulsively laid a small, gloved hand upon his. “Now do say you’ll get my letters for me, Mr. Mullins!” she beseeched, her pretty eyes fixed on his in a look of infinite entreaty. “You can’t possibly pretend it’s real burgling, can you? Please!”

The good red blood leapt in Mr. Priestley’s veins as it had not done for fifteen years. After all, what did it matter? The cause was just enough in all conscience, and even if things did go wrong, his own name would not be brought into it. But, bother all that—what did anything matter beside the good name of this poor, charming creature, whose little hand still lay so trustfully upon his?

“I—I’ll do my best,” he promised huskily. “My dear young lady, I’ll certainly do my best.”

His companion’s relief was undisguised. “Oh, you dear!” Her little hand gently squeezed Mr. Priestley’s in touching gratitude. She smiled at him through her tears. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down when it really came to the point.”

Many heroes have had less reward.

For the rest of the journey, and during the long ride through the darkness in the powerful two-seater, Mr. Priestley remained strangely silent. As a matter of fact he was trying hard to remember anything he had ever read which might prove helpful to one about to commit a felony. Wasn’t there somebody once called Charlie Peace? Or was it Charlie Raffles?

Chapter IV.
Red Blood and Red Ink

The girl backed the car skilfully up an almost invisible lane, and switched off the engine.

“We’d better get out here,” she said, in matter-of-fact tones. “The house is only a few yards away.”

They got out and walked down the road. Behind trim hedges, broken by white gates, loomed up dimly the shadowy masses of substantial houses. Before one of the white gates Mrs. Spettigue paused.

“Here we are!” she observed, in a low, thrilling voice.

“Oh!” said Mr. Priestley, unable altogether to prevent himself from wishing they were not. “I—er—I see.”

“What do we do now, Mr. Mullins?”

Mr. Priestley pulled himself together and did his best to vanquish the curious sinking feeling at the pit of his waistcoat. He must not forget that he was a professional burglar. The reputation of the absent Mr. Mullins rested on his shoulders.

“We go in,” he replied, with a decision which he was far from feeling.

They went in.

As they walked up the short drive Mr. Priestley pondered very earnestly. Now it came to the point, how on earth did one break into a house? The nearer he got to the building, the more solid and impenetrable it looked. Weren’t there cunning things to be done with knife-blades and window-latches? And treacle and that he had never come at all and being remarkably glad that he had. Anyhow, turnip indeed!

With infinite care they crept into what seemed to be a passage and listened. Not a sound was audible. If ever a house was deserted, Mr. Priestley reflected, surely this one was. A small hand clutched one of his, and he clutched back. They began to move soundlessly down the dark passage.

A penetrating squeak brought Mr. Priestley’s heart for a moment into his mouth. Then he saw that the girl had opened a door on the right of the passage. Through the aperture a pair of French windows on the farther side of a fair-sized room was faintly illuminated by the moonlight.

“This is the library,” said the girl in a low voice and drew him inside, closing the door behind them.

Mr. Priestley’s first action was the result of his ponderings. One item of criminal lore at least he had remembered—always provide for your way of escape! He walked swiftly across the room and opened the French windows.

“Oh, Mr. Mullins!” exclaimed the girl with soft admiration, when, not without pride, Mr. Priestley had explained the reason for his action. “What a thing it is to have an experienced burglar to help me. I should never have done that by myself.”

Mr. Priestley began to think that perhaps he would not have made such a bad burglar after all.

“Now, then, where does he keep those letters?” he asked, in brisk, businesslike tones.

“In one of the drawers of the writing-table,” said the girl softly. “Would it be safe to turn on the light, do you think?”

“No!” replied Mr. Priestley with firmness. “It wouldn’t.”

“Did you bring an electric torch?”

“Er—no, I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“Well, just strike a match, and I’ll show you the drawer.”

It was against Mr. Priestley’s instincts of preservation, but he complied. The flaring match gave him a brief glimpse of a big, comfortable room, and Mrs. Spettigue standing in front of a large writing-desk against one wall. Then it died down and Mr. Priestley prudently extinguished it.

“Did you see?” came the girl’s voice. “This one—second from the top on the right-hand side. It’s locked, unfortunately.”

“Bother!” said Mr. Priestley with feeling. How on earth did one tackle a locked drawer? Ah, of course! “Do you think you could get me the poker, if there is one?” he asked, feeling his way over to the table.

He heard the girl move across the room and a minute later a stout bar of iron was in his hands. He touched the drawer with it tentatively. Nothing much happened.

“Bother!” said Mr. Priestley again.

“What a pity you didn’t bring your tools, after all,” observed Mrs. Spettigue in a thoughtful voice.

Mr. Priestley gave the drawer a smart rap. The noise which resulted seemed as if it must have awakened the Seven Sleepers. Mr. Priestley hurriedly abandoned this method of approach.

“I think perhaps, if we——!”

He broke off abruptly, for at that moment the electric light flooded the room and a gruff voice remarked, in somewhat jerky tones, “Ah, Chicago Kate—er—um—I suppose? I was—er—um—expecting you.”

There was a terrified squeak from the girl at his side, and Mr. Priestley, spinning hastily round, found himself confronting, as it seemed to his horrified gaze, the biggest man he had ever seen.

This formidable-looking personage now standing in the open doorway was in full evening kit, with a broad blue ribbon across his shirt-front and an imposing decoration hung about his neck, evidently the insignia of some important order. And these were not the only striking things about him; the big black beard that covered his cheeks and chin and was trimmed to a neat point some three inches below his collar-stud, added considerably to the strikingness of his appearance. The fact that he fingered this beard with a gesture that was very like nervousness, and that his halting, almost reluctant tones were in strange contrast with the general fierceness of his aspect, Mr. Priestley was far too agitated to remark.

Mr. Priestley was, in fact, glued to the piece of floor on which he was standing in sheer horror, bereft of the powers both of movement and speech. Not so his companion. With an incoherent expression of emotion she flung herself on her knees before the big man in a gesture that was undoubtedly dramatic.

“Spare us, sir!” she exclaimed in heart-rending tones. “Do not send for the police! We were hungry, and came in to see if we could find a crust of bread. We have not tasted food for three days, either of us. Scold us, if you must, but don’t send us to prison!”

The big man, whose face during this speech had been a study in conflicting emotions, ranging from embarrassed bewilderment to painful efforts to control his features, looked the relief of one who has recognised an unexpected clue. “I know you, Chicago Kate,” he growled mildly. “I had word of your arrival in this country. You have been after my miniatures before, but this time—er—this time——” He hesitated and looked strangely uncomfortable. “Gimme that poker!” he remarked suddenly, and advanced to twitch the weapon out of Mr. Priestley’s nervous hand. “Have you broken open the drawer in which I keep them?” he demanded over his shoulder of the still kneeling Mrs. Spettigue.

That agile young lady followed him across the room on her knees, wringing her hands. “No sir! Before God and this gentleman here, I haven’t! I wouldn’t do such a thing, not if it were ever so!”

“What is the name of your dastardly companion, whose face is strange to me?” asked the large man with a despairing expression, as of one this time who has lost all cues and never hopes to find another.

“Oh, sir,” said Mrs. Spettigue earnestly, “I don’t think he’s got one.”

“Then I shall telephone for the police,” said the other, with an air of relieved finality. “If—er—if either of you attempts to escape from this room, you will be shot. I mean—er—biffed on the head with this poker.”

It was then at last that Mr. Priestley, to whose dazed mind this scene had fortunately conveyed little or no meaning, came to his senses. At the same moment he found his voice. His brain had turned in an instant from boiling hot into icy cold. Perfect indignation casteth out fear, and Mr. Priestley suddenly discovered that he was very indignant indeed.

“Yes, send for the police, you—you scoundrel,” he squeaked fiercely. “Send for the police, and I’ll give you in charge myself. You villain!” He turned round to the girl. “This is the man you were telling me about, I suppose?”

The girl jumped up from her knees. “Yes, it is!” she wailed, continuing to wring her hands. “Oh, what shall I do—what shall I do?”

Her anguish added fuel to the flames of Mr. Priestley’s wrath. He sprang forward and flourished an inexperienced fist a couple of inches below the black beard. “Blackmail!” he spluttered. “Open that drawer and hand over those letters at once, or it will be the worse for you, my friend. You—you hound!”

There was no mistaking the large man’s bewilderment. “Letters,” he repeated doubtfully. “There are—er—um—it’s my miniatures in that drawer, you know. Besides,” he added with an appearance of acute discomfort, “I’ve got to ring up the police. Must. Er—duty, you know, and all that.” The thought appeared to strike him that he was perhaps not being quite effective enough. He assumed a terrific scowl, brandished the poker and laid his hand on the telephone.

Mr. Priestley sprang forward as if to forestall him, but his companion in crime was quicker. With a piercing shriek she flung her arms about Mr. Priestley’s neck and clung to him desperately.

“Save me, Mr. Mullins! Save me!” she cried hysterically. “My husband would never forgive me if I got three years—never! He’s so dreadfully conventional. Oh, save me—save me!”

His fair burden embarrassed Mr. Priestley not a little in his efforts to reach the telephone. For a moment he struggled frantically. Then he became aware that she was trying to whisper something into his ear. He ceased his efforts and listened.

“Draw your revolver!” she was whispering frantically. “We must get away! That story about the letters was all nonsense, because you’d reformed. It was the miniatures I was after. If he sends for the police we’ll get five years’ imprisonment! For Heaven’s sake draw the revolver and fire it at him! It’s only blank, but he’ll be frightened and we can get away before he realises.”

For an instant Mr. Priestley’s long-suffering brain seemed to go suddenly numb. He had been taken in—tricked—bamboozled…. There were no letters—it was a criminal enterprise he was engaged on! Five years in prison!

Then his mind ceased to think and became one single emotion—the overpowering desire to get away. He whipped the revolver out of his pocket, fired it blindly in the direction of the big man and dragged the girl with him towards the open French window, all in one movement.

A horrified exclamation from his companion did not check him. A second, and more urgent one, did. On the threshold of the window he turned and looked back. To his horror he saw the big man leaning on the writing-desk in a curiously sagging attitude, one hand to his chest; and below the hand an unmistakably red stream trickled slowly down across his white shirt-front. Before Mr. Priestley’s horrified eyes he crumpled slowly up without a word and collapsed on to the floor, where he lay hideously still.

The girl was staring at him too, one hand pressed to her mouth. Slowly she turned a horrified face to Mr. Priestley and gazed at him with wide eyes. “It—it must have been loaded after all!” she whispered in strangled tones.

Suddenly she darted forward, fell on her knees by the big man’s side and ripped open his shirt-front, inserting a small hand. For a moment both she and Mr. Priestley were as still as statues, hardly daring to breathe. Then:—

“I—don’t—think—his—heart—is—beating!” she muttered jerkily. “You come and feel!”

Mr. Priestley shook his head speechlessly, hardly conscious of what he was doing.

“Come and feel!” ordered the girl, more peremptorily.

Mr. Priestley went.

The girl took his hand and held it where hers had been. That this happened to be on the right of the corpse’s chest instead of the left he was far too agitated to notice.

“Can you feel anything?” asked the girl anxiously.

“No,” Mr. Priestley had to admit.

The girl sat back on her heels. “He’s dead,” she said, with horrid finality.

They stared at each other.

“Good God!” muttered Mr. Priestley distractedly. “What on earth had we better do?”

The girl gave him no help. “It’s murder,” she said shortly.

“But—but—good God, I never meant to kill him! It isn’t murder. I thought the revolver was loaded with blank ammunition, as you said.”

“So did I!” said the girl helplessly. “I’m sure I told my maid to load it with blank. But you wouldn’t believe how careless that girl is. I knew she’d be getting me into trouble one of these days.”

The corpse’s face twitched spasmodically, but Mr. Priestley was fortunately still engaged in staring at the cause of all his trouble.

“And it won’t help you in the least to say you thought it wasn’t loaded,” that lady told him frankly. “They’ll know we came here after those miniatures. You’re known to the police, I suppose; and of course I am. It’s not much good saying we shot him by mistake; it’s murder they’ll try us for. If we’re caught, it’s a hanging job for both of us.”

“There’s no need,” said Mr. Priestley slowly, “for you to appear in it at all. After all, it was I who shot him; nobody’s going to know there were two of us. We’d better separate, and you can——”

“’Ullo!” said a gruff voice from the open window—a really gruff voice this time. “What’s all this about, eh?”

Both of them started to their feet. Just inside the room was a burly policeman, flashing a quite unnecessary lantern. They stared at him aghast as he advanced upon them.

“’Eard a scream comin’ from ’ere, not above two minutes back,” went on the policeman sternly, “an’ then a shot. Or sounded like a shot, it did. So I thought as ’ow——” He caught sight of the corpse on the floor, which had hitherto been partially hidden by an arm-chair, and broke off abruptly. His bulging eyes contemplated it with incredulity.

The girl was the first to recover herself. Clapping her hand to her mouth, she turned hastily about and her shoulders heaved as if under great emotion; the next moment she faced the guardian of the law, her face still working painfully.

“We didn’t do it, constable!” she cried wildly. “We found it here. We heard the shot too, and came in like you. We didn’t do it!”

The constable took no notice of this dramatic cry. His eyes were still fastened on the sprawling corpse, upon whose white shirt-front the large red stain showed up with ominous distinctness. He continued to contemplate it.

Mr. Priestley, fastened once more to the ground, contemplated it also. In his paralysed brain one thought only found place—“murder will out!” In his more intelligent moments Mr. Priestley might have noted with interest that the more dramatic the situation became, the more he had recourse to platitudes to express his feelings; as it was, he could not even have told you what a platitude was.

“Is ’e—is ’e dead?” asked the constable in awed tones.

“I’m afraid he is,” replied the girl more soberly.

With an effort the constable’s eyes disengaged themselves from the body and roved slowly over the room. They fell on the revolver which Mr. Priestley in his agitation had dropped. With an exclamation of pleasure the constable picked it up.

“This ’ere’s the weapon,” he remarked acutely.

The corpse took advantage of his and Mr. Priestley’s preoccupation with the revolver to direct an expressive glance towards the girl, uneasy and interrogative. The glance said, as plainly as glances may, “What the blazes are we to do now?”

The girl contorted her pretty features into a prodigious wink. The wink said, as clearly as a wink can: “You just lie doggo and leave it all to me. This is an unexpected development, I admit, but advantage may yet be derived from it. Take your cue from me and go on emulating a door-nail.” The corpse did so.

“Well, I’ll be blowed!” observed the policeman, continuing to stare at the revolver. A gleam illuminated his stolid face. “Murder!” he exclaimed. “Murder —that’s what it is! And this ’ere’s the weapon that did it.” He looked with sudden suspicion on the guilty couple. “Now then,” he said in an official voice. “What’ve you two got to say, I’d like to know? And I warn you that anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence against you.” He scowled upon them darkly.

“Then we won’t say anything, constable,” replied the girl brightly. “But we really didn’t do it, you know. Can we go now, please? We’ve got an appointment with——”

“Are you sure he’s dead, constable?” Mr. Priestley interrupted, in not too steady tones. His mind had begun to work again and the glimmerings of a plan had appeared to him. “You haven’t—er—examined him, you know. He may not be dead at all.”

“But the young lady said he was,” objected the constable, with the air of one scoring a distinct point.

Mr. Priestley almost danced with impatience. “Well, examine him, man, and find out for yourself!” he cried. The habit of obedience was strong in the constable. This was how he was accustomed to being addressed, and then he just went and did as he had been told. He did so now, and turned his back on the other two in order to advance towards the corpse.

Now it had been Mr. Priestley’s plan, as soon as this large back was turned, to grab the girl by the wrist and make a bolt for it, trusting to the darkness and the waiting two-seater to make a clean get-away. What was to come after that, or what his own future course was to be, he had not had time to consider; for the present the future could take care of itself. He dived forward to grab.

The girl must have been a singularly obtuse young woman. Apparently she had not gathered the faintest inkling of Mr. Priestley’s deep scheme. Instead of waiting to be grabbed she had actually darted forward herself and forestalled the constable at the corpse’s side. “His heart isn’t beating at all!” she exclaimed, dropping on her knees again and guiding the constable’s large hand inside the corpse’s shirt.

It is remarkable how emotion derives us of a large proportion of our horse-sense. The constable’s emotion had a different basis from that of Mr. Priestley, but neither did he notice that he was anxiously feeling the corpse’s right wing instead of his left.

“And his pulse isn’t beating either,” amplified the girl, submitting the corpse’s inert wrist to official inspection.

“It isn’t that,” agreed the constable solemnly. He was perfectly right. Pulses very seldom do beat on the wrong side of the wrist.

“Let’s try a feather on his nose,” suggested the girl. “Have you got a feather? No? Well, I suppose a hair will do.” She plucked one from her own head and laid it delicately across the corpse’s nostrils; it did not quiver. She waited a few moments till signs of incipient apoplexy became apparent in the corpse’s features, then lifted the hair and examined it closely. “It never moved,” she announced. “Here, constable, you’d better keep this. It’s a valuable piece of evidence, you know. Have you got a pocket-book?”

The constable took the hair and placed it carefully between the blank pages of his notebook. He was not quite certain as to its precise importance, but he was very amenable to suggestion. “’E’s dead all right,” he announced portentously.

In the background Mr. Priestley was hovering uneasily. The aching to escape was getting almost unbearable. Whatever this extraordinary girl might or might not be, her continued proximity to the representative of the Law was intolerable. Escape first, and explanations, perhaps, afterwards; but anyhow, escape first! He cast agonising glances from her to the invitingly open window, and from the open window to her. The ridiculous child did not seem even to understand the awful gravity of her position.

Casting discretion to the winds, he caught her eye with his own rolling optic, jerked his head backward and then nodded it towards the window; he could not make his meaning plainer without words.

He had made it only too plain. The constable might not have possessed the brightest intellect in Duffley, but Mr. Priestley’s agitated eye and jerky leaping would have conveyed suspicion to the most charitable. The constable rose portentously to his feet. Mr. Priestley edged towards the window. The constable followed him.

Unfortunately for Mr. Priestley’s plans it was his opponent this time who had the revolver. Nor did he scruple to employ it. “You stand still!” ordered the constable in a dignified bellow, the inner meaning of the situation growing plainer to him every minute. Here was a perfectly good murder, and here were two people in a state of considerable agitation, and here also was a revolver. This wanted looking into. “You stand still!” he repeated, advancing to look into it.

Mr. Priestley stood still; but he did not stand silent. “Run!” he shouted suddenly to the girl, unawed even by the menacing revolver. “Run for it—window—I’ll look after this chap! Get away!”

“Ho!” said the policeman, and promptly placed his burly body between the girl and the window. “Would, would you? You’ll ’ave to comealongerme, both of you. Now then, ’ands up!”

It is difficult not to accede to the request of a formidable man when his demand is emphasised by a judiciously wielded revolver, and there was no doubt that the constable was now a very formidable man indeed. The state of affairs had become even clearer to him. Here were not only two murderers, caught quite literally red-handed, but here also was himself, and at the business end of a revolver. Even the constable could put this two and two together and make the answer “sergeant.”

After a momentary hesitation, Mr. Priestley’s hands wobbled up. After a still longer hesitation, those of the girl did also. The happy, carefree expression had departed from her face; she looked like a lady who had made advances to a cow and found that she was toying with a bull. The corpse took a hasty glance round and uttered a faint, strangled sound, but spoke no word; his not to reason why, his but to do and die. He went on dying.

By means of a series of brisk commands, punctuated by prods of the revolver, the constable manœuvred his captives into line facing the door. They jumped nimbly to execute his pleasure. Then their wrists adjacent to one another were gripped, there was a sharp click, and the sound ensued as of a heavy body stepping back with satisfaction.

“Now you can take ’em down,” observed the constable almost benevolently, regarding his handiwork with modest pride. “And stand still while I make out me report, if you please. An’ don’t you try any more monkey-tricks with me.” He drew out a stub of pencil from his pocket, seated himself at the desk, laid the revolver in front of him and contemplated the two with a truculent eye.

They returned his gaze gloomily, even Mr. Priestley. Mr. Priestley had never before been tethered by the wrist to that of a particularly charming young woman, and he might have been pardoned for feeling a little exhilaration in the idea; yet his countenance was completely lacking in exhilaration. A large number of emotions, it is true, were represented there, but exhilaration was not among them. Nor did the young woman evince any greater delight in being tethered to Mr. Priestley. Handcuffs evidently brought her soul no joy. By her expression, anybody less addicted to the use of handcuffs would have been hard to find. She now wore the air of one who has stepped gaily into a train labelled Birmingham, and finds herself in Crewe; a blend of dismay, annoyance, bewilderment as to the precise whereabouts, and anxiety regarding the return to the starting-point. The corpse was now prudently keeping its eyes tightly closed.

And then events happened with a rapidity that would have done credit to an American Cinema producer. With one dive Mr. Priestley was at the desk, and the revolver in his hand. With another he was at the nearest door, and lo! it was open. The young woman, having no option, followed his movements about the room with the jerky leaps of a fish manœuvring in mid-air, at the end of a line; this was not the moment to consider feminine deportment, and Mr. Priestley quite rightly did not stop to do so.

The door he had flung open was not that by which they had entered the room; it gave access to a shallow cupboard, having shelves across its upper half and tolerably empty below. Mr. Priestley viewed it for one-fifth of a second with exultation, then he turned back to the thoroughly bewildered constable. Rural constables get very little time for attending the cinema.

“Get in there,” said Mr. Priestley very grimly to the constable, “as you value your life.” And he in turn pointed his words by a recourse to the argumentum ad hominem.

The constable did value his life. He did not know very much of what was happening, but he did know that. He got in.

Mr. Priestley closed the door on him and turned the key. Then he bent down, jerked the young woman’s right wrist somewhere into the neighbourhood of the small of her back, and curved his free arm round her knees. The next moment she was swung off her feet and hoisted up in the air, while this new cave-man edition of Mr. Priestley trotted with hasty, if slightly wobbly steps out into the night. Thus did the knight not only rescue his lady, but even carried her off with him in the orthodox way.

The corpse was so far galvanised as to sit up and stare after their swaying figures. Then he, too, rose and fled into the night, uttering strange noises.

Chapter V.
Confusing the Issue

In the shadow of a shrubbery two hitherto respectable English citizens clutched one another with ecstatic fingers, moaning feebly. Through uncurtained French windows just in front of them a large policeman could be seen, flourishing a revolver. The words, “You stand still!” floated out into the peaceful night.

“Oh, my sacred hat!” moaned the shorter of the two citizens in the shrubbery. “This is better than the films—far, far, better. Why go to the cinema, when you can stage this sort of thing in your own home?”

The other citizen, a tall, lanky figure with bowed shoulders, removed his pince-nez, misty with emotion, and polished them hastily. His long body quivered with guilty joy. “Yes, but look here, Doyle,” he said reluctantly, “what’s going to happen? We can’t have Laura taken off to the police-station.”

“Why not?” asked that young woman’s future brother-in-law unfeelingly. “It’d do her all the good in the world. And I wouldn’t bail her out either. Oh, sportsman!” he added, as more words floated out on the still air. “He’s trying to get her to bolt for it, see? Strikes me that old Priestley’s coming through this with colours flying.”

“He is,” agreed Guy. “But I really think we ought to intervene now, you know. Matters have been taken rather out of our hands, with this ass of a policeman interfering. We don’t want to get involved in a conspiracy to make a bigger hass of the law than it usually is. We’d better go along and explain before things get worse.”

“Good God, no!” croaked Mr. Doyle with emotion. “For Heaven’s sake don’t spoil things now, Nesbitt. They’re just beginning to get interesting. We couldn’t have got a policeman into it more neatly if we’d plotted for a month. Just think how his presence is going to intensify our friend’s reactions, my dear chap!”

“That’s true enough,” said Guy quivering again.

“And you needn’t worry about things,” pursued Mr. Doyle earnestly. “Not so long as Laura’s on the spot. You leave it to her. I’d back that girl to— Hullo! What the blazes is happening now?”

In the lighted room two uneasy backs now confronted their audience. The constable could be seen approaching them with awful determination in every line of his massive form.

“Great Scott!” observed Mr. Doyle a moment later, in tones of respect. “He’s handcuffed ’em. Handcuffed ’em together. Handcuffed Laura to—well, well, I’ll be blowed!” One gathered that the person who ventured to handcuff Laura had earned Mr. Doyle’s deepest veneration.

Guy began to chuckle silently. The idea of a handcuffed Laura appeared to appeal to him too.

“Keep still!” Mr. Doyle implored, recovering from the first shock of this novel spectacle. “Oh, Nesbitt, keep still! We mustn’t interrupt this. Oh, sacred pigs, how gorgeous! Look, he’s going to make out a report. My dear chap, can you see Laura’s face? We’ll rescue ’em later somehow, but—oh, cripes!” He clung to a laurel-branch and abandoned himself to helpless giggling.

Guy, scarcely less self-controlled, caught at his arm. “Look! That friend of yours is turning the tables. Oh, well done, man, well done! Look—he’s going to put him in the cupboard. He—well, I’ll be hanged!”

With damp eyes they watched Mr. Priestley’s imitation of an American film-drama. An instant later a heavy body in swift if somewhat unsteady motion, lumbered past their hiding-place; peeping cautiously out, they were just able to catch the look of alarm and despondency which was being worn by the most disconcerted damsel in England at that moment. They clapped their hands hurriedly over their mouths and clung to one another again. Then came George.

“Did you fellows see?” demanded George weakly. “Did you see?”

“We did, oh admirable corpse,” moaned Mr. Doyle and promptly clung to this more solid support. “And do you mean to say you lay through it all and never gave yourself away?”

“Don’t think I did, no,” replied George modestly. “But look here, I say, what on earth are we going to do? That bobby’s rather messed things up, hasn’t he?”

“We’ll give them ten minutes to get away,” Guy grinned, “and then we’ll liberate him. It’s all right, I think. Laura will take her cue from that handcuff, and see the game’s up. She’ll bring him back here, and we’ll have to file the thing off. Do you know, I wondered all the time whether it would come off at all (the plot, I mean, not the handcuff), but I never dreamed it would fail as gloriously as that.”

“She got him up to scratch all right,” George observed. “Something to do with letters, he was babbling about. Anyhow, he pooped off like a good ’un. Well, what about wandering along to the drawing-room and telling the other two what’s happened? I say, we’ll have to let that bobby out soon, or he’ll have the house over. Listen to him!”

They listened. Through the French windows now came sounds as of a large person in distress, whoopings, bellowings and thuds, mingled now and then with muffled solos on the policeman’s whistle.

“We’ll give him five minutes,” Guy decided. “Come on, then.”

Doyle caught his arm, his face alight with new excitement. “I say, Nesbitt,” he spluttered, “don’t go in yet. I—I’ve had a tremendous brain-wave. Look here—don’t you see what the gods have sent us?”

“Beyond a bellowing bobby,” said Guy, “and an awkward pair of handcuffs, I don’t, no.”

“Why,” exclaimed Mr. Doyle, now almost incoherent with excitement, “why, don’t you see? A detective story in real life! The stock beginning of half the thrillers ever published! Mysterious stranger murdered, bobby surprises suspicious couple who may or may not be guilty, couple turn tables on bobby and make their escape, and when bobby is released—the corpse has disappeared! Man, it’s great! We must make use of it somehow!”

They stared at each other. George stared at both of them. He was not quite sure what was happening, but as long as they did not want him to put on another false beard or spoil another white shirt with red ink, he was perfectly game.

Over Guy’s features spread an unholy smile. “This wants looking into,” he agreed. “Let’s to the drawing-room.”

Disregarding the muffled frenzy from the library, they went.

Two agitated women rose at them as one girl, and danced before them.

“Guy, dear,” demanded that gentleman’s wife, “what has been happening? We heard the shot, and then. What is that curious whistling noise?”

“Pat, tell me the whole story,” Miss Howard danced with impatience, “or I’ll scream! I couldn’t have stood it a minute longer. I don’t care how strict your orders were, we were coming out the very next minute. Weren’t we, Cynthia?”

With all possible haste Guy put them out of their misery. He went on to mention Mr. Doyle’s brilliant scheme.

“Oh, dear!” Cynthia collapsed weakly into a chair. “Guy, this is too silly. Poor Laura! Handcuffs! Oh, dear!”

But Miss Howard was made of sterner material. Disregarding her sister’s interesting predicament, she concentrated on the matter in hand. “Clues!” she announced, wrinkling her own pretty forehead in the same way as that which, in her sister’s case, had led directly to Mr. Priestley’s undoing. “Wait a minute—let me think! The body’s gone. Yes, but how did it go? It was dragged! Where to? Obviously the river, where there was a boat waiting in readiness to receive it. How’s that?”

The others looked at her with respect.

“But look here,” George interposed, “what’s it all about? I mean, what are you getting at? What’s the idea?”

The others looked at him, without respect.

“They want to set the scene for an ordinary conventional shilling-dreadful, George, in order to find out what would really happen in actual life instead of fiction,” Cynthia told him gently. “I’m not at all sure that I approve. Anyhow, never mind those children; come and sit here and tell me how you liked being shot. But do, for goodness’ sake, take off that dreadful beard!” she concluded with a little squeak, collapsing again.

George did as he was bid, and tugged manfully at his spirit-gummed beard. Having tugged the tears into his eyes, he gave up the effort in despair and continued to wear his face-embroidery.

The others were busily conferring.

“A sack of potatoes is what we want,” Doyle remarked. “We don’t want to have to drag George on the seat of his trousers, but unless you can suggest anything else——!” He looked inquiringly at Guy.

“I don’t think we have a sack of potatoes,” Guy replied, “and there’s always the possibility that George might object. What about a rug, with George sitting on it? That ought to give the right track.”

“That’s fine,” Dora agreed breathlessly. “Come on, George; you’re wanted.”

“At once, do you think?” Doyle demurred.

“Of course, idiot!” retorted his fiancée frankly. “We must let him hear the corpse being dragged out.”

“Dora,” said Mr. Doyle, “you’re a wonder. Come on, George!”

Not altogether willingly, George came.

In the hall Doyle held up his hand. “We’re murderers, don’t forget,” he whispered. “Now, where the murderer in real life usually goes wrong (the one who gets caught, I mean) is, as my fellow criminologist will tell you, through insufficient attention to detail. Take care of the details, and the body takes care of itself. Let us therefore concentrate upon details. We are a couple of genteel desperadoes, aren’t we? Therefore, we’re in boiled shirts and dinner-jackets. Good! But we are on a river-trip, and we don’t want to be recognised by stray passers-by; therefore we wear overcoats and hats, and mufflers across our mouths. Overcoats, hats and mufflers forward, please?” He grabbed his own coat and began to struggle into it.

“Is that really necessary?” asked George plaintively.

“Not for you. You’re only a corpse. For us, yes. Ready, Nesbitt? Then you creep very softly in by the door here, George, and take up your former position. We will enter by the French windows, talking in gruff voices in a foreign tongue, to match your beard and decorations. We are, as a matter of fact, inhabitants of Jugo-Chzechovina, and converse almost entirely in ‘z’s’ and ‘x’s.’ Let her rip!”

George crept dutifully off, and Guy, pulling his soft hat well down over his eyes, led the way down the passage. Mr. Doyle hovered near his fiancée, who was keeping a superintendent’s eye upon all of them. “Do you realise this means our furniture, old girl?” he grinned at her.

“Furniture? Pat—what do you mean?”

“Why, isn’t this the chance of a life-time? I’ve got a scoop here, backed by that bobby’s evidence, that’s going to be worth a whole houseful of furniture, and a watering-can for the garden as well. What else do you think I’ve been engineering it all for? Thzmx zp! as they say in Jugo-Chzechovina.” He sped after his host, winding his muffler across the lower part of his face as he went. Dora gazed after him with a very different expression on her face from that usually seen by the public.

When the two approached the French windows a moment later, the noise was still in full swing, though now spasmodic and conveying a somewhat dispirited effect; but they had hardly stamped over the threshold and exchanged a few gruff “z’s” and “x’s” before it ceased abruptly.

“Eel ehcoot, ler jongdarm, sxs zz,” grunted the shorter of the two Jugo-Chzechovinians. “Oo eh ler zbodyx? Ahxha! Venneh soor, Zorx! Soor ler mattoh-x, zzz.”

With stealthy movements and sibilant noises they spread a mat beside George and rolled him on to it. Refusing to wait in the wings this time, Cynthia and Dora appeared in the doorway to watch the performance, the latter going so far as to lend a helping hand, tapping about on the parquet flooring with her high heels; for, as she very reasonably pointed out to her fellow-conspirators as they bent over the corpse together: “Il faut absolument xsx avoir une vamp, zzz?”

The inert George was then conveyed on his rug across the floor, over the threshold into the garden (involving a four-inch drop on the small of his back) and across the lawn to the river at the bottom. There Mr. Doyle caused all four of them to jump energetically about, so as to leave the choicest collection of footprints that any sleuth could desire, after which they returned to the house.

From the cupboard in the library all this time had come a silence even more eloquent than the former protestations.

“Anything else to be done?” asked Mr. Doyle, thoughtfully, when they had returned again to the hall. He seemed to have taken charge of affairs for the moment and Dora, observing the gleam in his eye, had no difficulty in understanding why. She gave her fiancé the credit of being an artist; he was, she knew, quite capable of arranging the whole thing purely for art’s sake. But the vision of that elusive furniture was a very powerful aid to art.

She was very ready to encourage him. “Clues!” she said, wrinkling her forehead again. “We must have some more clues. But what?”

“It’s a pity we’ve got to do things in such a hurry,” remarked Guy. “This sort of affair wants properly thinking out. I don’t see how we’re going to arrange a real set of interdependent clues, on the spur of the moment.”

“Well, I can think of one at any rate,” said Mr. Doyle thirstily. “Blood! When all’s said and done, there’s nothing like blood. The river was all right, but blood is well known to be thicker. Some blood, please, somebody!”

“No, I’m hanged if I will,” said George with decision, catching the predatory gleam in his eye. “I’ve done my share.”

“But only in red ink, George,” Mr. Doyle pointed out wistfully. But George, muttering about “this infernal beard,” was already on his way upstairs and to the bathroom.

“I suppose you haven’t got a spot of blood to spare, have you?” Mr. Doyle inquired politely of his host.

“Pat, I won’t have you after my husband’s blood,” Cynthia interposed.

“Besides,” added her husband, “I gave away most of mine yesterday. I’m afraid I’m almost bloodless at the moment.”

“And it’s practically useless trying to get any out of a stone, I understand,” said Mr. Doyle thoughtfully. “How exceedingly awkward. I shall have to furnish some myself. I take it that you have at any rate a lethal weapon of some sort on the premises; a safety razor, for instance. Lead me to the slaughter, then, please.”

“Don’t bleed to death, darling one, will you?” remarked Dora with anxiety.

“Dora, you touch me,” said her fiancé with emotion. “This solicitude is admirable. No, for your sake, my dearest, I will try very hard not to bleed to death.”

“I was thinking of the furniture we’re going to get out of this,” retorted his fiancée frankly. “We don’t want it wasted.”

Mr. Doyle moved with dignity upstairs.

Guy, following him, looked back over his shoulder. “I think you’d better turn the library light out,” he said. “We don’t want any more unwelcome visitors. And turn all the other lights out as well, will you, Cynthia? I’ve been thinking that we may want an alibi later.”

Cynthia turned into the drawing-room to carry out this request; Dora made her way out into the garden to enter the library once more. She was an astute young woman, and she had recognised that a light turned out by somebody entering the library from the house instead of the garden might give the policeman material for thought upon the wrong lines.

Guy’s chance reference to further visitors proved to be not wide of the mark. As Dora was tap-tapping out into the garden again after extinguishing the light, a form loomed up out of the darkness in front of her.

“Hullo, Mrs. Nesbitt,” observed the form cheerfully. “Bit late to call, I know, but I saw a light as I was passing (seems to be out now) and it’s rather urgent, so I thought you wouldn’t mind. Oh, I—I beg your pardon. I thought it was Mrs. Nesbitt.”

If Dora had been nonplussed it was only for a moment. In rather less than a second and a half she had determined on her line of action. Drawing the chiffon scarf she was wearing across the lower part of her face, she clutched violently at the form’s arm. “Murder!” she exclaimed tensely. “There’s been murder done in there. No—don’t go in, you’ll only make matters worse. Go for the police—quick!”

The form (a thick, short form it was) staggered back. “M-Murder?” it echoed. “Good gracious, you don’t mean Mr. or Mrs. Nesbitt?”

“No!” Dora replied impatiently. “They’re out of the way. They’ve been got out of the way, if you must know. It’s nothing to do with them. It’s the Crown Prince of—no, I daren’t tell you. My own life hangs by a hair. Quick, I must go; I can’t keep them waiting any longer. The police—run for the police!”

“Th-th-them?” repeated the now thoroughly agitated form. “Good Heavens, do you mean the—the murderers?”

Dora laughed bitterly. “You can call them that, of course. They call themselves executioners. It’s a matter of opinion, I suppose. But I mustn’t stay a moment longer. If he caught us we shouldn’t be alive another second!”

“Who is he?” gasped the form.

“The Man with the Broken Nose,” Dora replied in sardonic tones. “You’ve never heard of him, I suppose? Oh, God, would that I hadn’t either!” Her voice broke with considerable artistry. Dora was certainly wasted in revue.

“But look here!” squeaked the form. “Who is—the Crown Prince? Good gracious, but——”

Dora shook his arm with awful agitation. “Hush!” she whispered tensely. “He’s coming. Run, man—run for your life! And for the police, of course. Run!” With a final shake she broke away from him and darted in the direction of the river.

The form stood for a hectic moment gazing after her. Then it too lumbered away at a brisk jog-trot. It did not lumber in the direction of the library.

Considerably pleased with herself, Dora returned to the house. Only Cynthia and George (now beardless) were available, sitting, a little uneasily, on the couch in the now darkened drawing-room. Guy and Mr. Doyle were still about their bloody business.

“George, I’m surprised at you,” remarked Miss Howard facetiously, when this state of affairs had been made known to her. “Sitting there and holding hands with Cynthia in the dark. Why haven’t you been up and busy, like me? Listen to what sister’s been doing for the cause.” With no little zest Dora embarked upon an account of her encounter with the form.

She was just finishing it when the other two conspirators returned, Mr. Doyle complaining bitterly of weakness and requiring his fiancée to support him on his feet. Shaking him off, that unfeeling young woman promptly began to recite her adventure over again.

“But who on earth was it?” Cynthia wondered.

“Search me!” responded Miss Howard tersely. “I didn’t stop to ask him his name and address. Anyhow, you see what I’ve done. Provided a new and independent witness, and filled him up with just the sort of tale we wanted—Crown Prince and executioners and gangs and distressed damsel and all the rest of it. The Man with the Broken Nose! Do you know, I’m rather proud of that title; I feel there’s a good thriller behind that title, simply waiting to be written. Oh, by the way, here’s a souvenir,” She tossed a handkerchief into Cynthia’s lap. “I extracted it from his coat-sleeve in the intervals of shaking same. I could have relieved him of his watch and chain if I’d wanted too, and probably his collar and tie as well; he was far too dithery to notice little details like that. Most useful knowledge I’ve gained, if I ever take to crime in real earnest.”

Cynthia was examining the handkerchief by the light of a candle which Guy had lit. “R.F. in one corner,” she announced. “Who on earth is R. F., Guy?”

“Reginald Foster!” replied her husband promptly. “The biggest bore in creation.” He began to shake again with unholy glee. “Have you any blood left, Doyle?”

“Precious little, and I don’t mind telling you that I’m not parting with it. There may be a few scrapings in the cup, though. Why?”

“Just an idea. Here, George; something you can do. On the hall-table you’ll see a cup, bearing traces of blood. Wipe that handkerchief round inside it, and then go and drop it on the river’s brim—where we’ll hope that not even the Inspector from Scotland Yard will mistake it for a primrose. Hurry, won’t you?”

George hurried.

“I think you’re being perfectly horrible, Guy,” said his wife. “Why couldn’t you go on using red-ink, like civilised human beings?”

“Because red-ink when analysed does not respond to the tests for human blood, wife.”

“But good gracious, you’re not expecting matters to get as far as that, are you?”

“I was once a Boy Scout, Cynthia,” Mr. Doyle intervened, “and my motto was ‘Be Prepared.’ It still is. Another of my mottoes,” he added thoughtfully, “if I remember aright, was ‘Zing-a-zing, Bom Bom!’ But don’t ask me what that means, because I never could discover. It’s probably Jugo-Chzechovinian.”

“But what did you do with the blood?” Cynthia pursued.

“Oh, just sprinkled it about in convenient dollops, like the gentle dew from Heaven, you know.”

“Well, goodness knows what’s going to come of all this,” Cynthia sighed.

“I say,” remarked George, with the appearance of careful thought, “wouldn’t it be a good idea to put your brother and sister off now? Er—supposed to be coming on Tuesday, aren’t they? Yes,” said George weightily, “if I were you I should put them off.”

“We’re certainly going to get into the most dreadful mess,” said Cynthia, not, however, relieving George’s mind.

“Your library carpet’s got into that already,” said Mr. Doyle consolingly.

“Enough of this chatty badinage!” Dora broke in. “Do you know that Mr. Reginald Foster has gone galloping off for the police? He won’t find him, because he won’t think of looking in your library cupboard, but he’ll ring up the nearest station; and then things are going to get busy. We’ve got to work out a plan of campaign. Remember I’ve had it put on record that our host and hostess were lured away from the house.”

“Well, there’s nothing to contradict that,” Guy agreed. “It’s lucky we gave the maids the week-end off, just in case of emergencies. Emergencies seem to be arising every minute. I’ve thought out a plan. I’ll get George and you, Doyle, to help me push the car out of the garage and a little way down the road, and then I’ll come driving back, making as much noise as I can, and generally enact the householder arriving home after a long ride. I surmise that those strange sounds, which seem to have died away altogether, will then break out with renewed force from the library, and I shall liberate our prisoner. I will then deal with any other emergencies as they crop up. It doesn’t matter about our stories coinciding, because your household won’t have heard or know anything at all. So, after you’ve helped me with the car, you three sneak home and go straight to bed.”

“All except me,” murmured Mr. Doyle, “who will be summoned to the telephone a few minutes after the prisoner has been liberated. ‘Knowing that such a distinguished journalist was in the vicinity, Mr. Nesbitt, etc.’”

Guy grinned at him guiltily. “You’re not going to make a newspaper story of it too, Doyle, surely?”

“You bet I am,” rejoined Mr. Doyle grimly. “And a houseful of furniture too. My motives, let it be understood, are entirely mercenary.”

“Well, good luck to them! Now then, here comes George; are we all ready?”

“I say,” said Cynthia suddenly. “I wonder what’s happening to poor Laura all this time? It’s nearly half-past eleven. Oughtn’t we to do something about her? But I suppose we can’t!”

It was the first time anybody had given a thought to poor Laura for almost an hour.

“By Jove, yes, Laura,” agreed her husband. “We must keep an eye open for her. I hope she doesn’t bring that fellow gaol-bird of hers back at an awkward moment. And what the deuce are we going to do about him?”

Had Guy but known it, that question was already in process of being answered for him at a spot some considerable distance away.

Chapter VI.
Adventures of a Pair of Handcuffs

When Mr. Priestley performed his masterly retreat from the scene of his crime it was without any definite plan in his head beyond reaching the waiting two-seater and reaching it very quickly. Blundering through shrubberies and over flower-beds, his speechless burden still in his arms, he made his way by a sort of blind instinct to the hedge that bordered the road. Through it he plunged manfully, heedless of the prickly twigs which scratched his face and hands and the dangling legs of his companion (a fact of which the companion herself was anything but heedless), and then at last set his burden on her feet.

But even then there was no time to waste in useless explanations or converse. Grabbing her handcuffed hand with a brief grunt, Mr. Priestley, that suddenly transformed man of leisure, set off at a round pace down the road. His companion, having no say in the matter, and no breath to say it with had she had one, followed. They reached the car and fell inside in a congested bundle.

The fact that it was Mr. Priestley’s left wrist which was tethered, made things a little awkward. For them to sit decorously side by side in the orthodox manner was out of the question, for the car’s gear-levers were on the right.

“I’ll stand on the running-board,” Mr. Priestley panted, “till we’re safely out of the way.” He scrambled nimbly over the side and did his best to anchor himself against it.

Laura started the engine, backed the car out of the lane and set off up the road. Getting into top gear, she drove steadily ahead at a rapidly increasing pace, her face as grim and set as she imagined that of an accessory to murder and professional thief should be. At her side Mr. Priestley bounced unhappily up and down, clinging desperately to the side of the car with his free hand and expecting every moment to be jerked backwards into the road. That in such an event his companion would be neatly extricated from the car to share his fate afforded him no consolation. Fortunately he was far too preoccupied for the moment in saving his own life at every twist or jolt in the road to be in a fit state to think coherently about what had happened since he last saw this car.

Laura, on the other hand, was thinking rapidly. Once the confusion had subsided of that wild rush from the house and her ignominious part in it, her brain had found itself free again to return to business. It was now working overtime.

Two thoughts were foremost in Laura’s mind. One was that this affair had turned into the most glorious rag that the mind of man (or girl) could conceive, and that nothing must be done to spoil it by so much as the set of a hair. The other was that Mr. Matthew Priestley had acquitted himself really most surprisingly, almost incredibly well. He had not only risen to the occasion and obligingly fired off the revolver, he had not only turned the tables on that ridiculous policeman and rescued the two of them from a situation which, if it had been as real as he thought it, would have been a remarkably ticklish one, he had not only proved himself in spite of circumstantial evidence to the contrary to be a man of courage, determination, decent feelings and resource, but (and perhaps this appealed to Laura more than all the foregoing catalogue of Mr. Priestley’s surprising virtues) his first thought from beginning to end had been for her alone, and that even after she had led him to think her a professional thief and therefore, according to the social code, of no personal account whatever. Laura felt herself warming quite a lot towards this normally mild little man with the heart of a bulldog.

But that did not go to say that she enjoyed being handcuffed to him. She did not. Indeed, in the presence of those handcuffs, it was difficult to see how this glorious rag was going to continue. Obviously they must be removed, and as soon as possible; or else they would have to go back and⸺

At this point Laura became aware that words were coming towards her, jerkily, over the side of the car.

“N-not so f-fast!” came the words spasmodically. “I can’t—hold on—m-much longer!”

Laura glanced at her speedometer; the needle was hovering between forty and fifty. She hastened to pull up at the side of the road.

“I’m so sorry,” she said contritely, as Mr. Priestley sobbed for breath and relief. Travelling outside the shelter of the windscreen at fifty miles an hour does knock the breath out of one.

“’Sallright,” gasped Mr. Priestley, drooping like a wet blanket over the side of the car. “But I thought—’f I fell out—you’d have to come—too—oof!”

“Good gracious!” observed Laura, much impressed. “Do you know, that simply never occurred to me.”

“No?” panted Mr. Priestley politely. “But it—would have done—oof—’f I—had. Oh, oof!”

A minute or two was devoted to Mr. Priestley’s pursuit of his lost breath.

“Well, Mr. Mullins,” Laura then remarked brightly, “now perhaps you’ll tell me what is the next move?”

“To get rid of this infernal handcuff,” said Mr. Priestley without hesitation.

“Yes, I’d thought of that too. But how?”

“File it off!” returned Mr. Priestley promptly. “Have you got a file in your tool-box?”

“No, I don’t think so. In fact, I’m sure I haven’t. Oh, Mr. Mullins, this is a terrible business! What are we to do?” The look of appealing helplessness that Laura turned on her fellow-adventurer was not what might have been expected from a young woman who had just been driving a car at nearly fifty miles an hour along an unlighted road.

Fortunately Mr. Priestley was in no state to notice such discrepancies. “Don’t you worry, my dear young lady,” he said paternally. “You shall come to no harm. Now, let me see, is there any other way we can arrange ourselves? I really think we should push on a little farther before we see about getting hold of a file, and this running-board is really a most uncomfortable way of travelling. How can we manage?”

“Supposing you knelt in front of the seat with your back to the engine?” suggested Laura. “We might be able to manage like that.”

“Humph,” replied Mr. Priestley, to whom the idea did not seem to appeal. “No, Mrs. Spettigue, I think —by the way, I suppose you’re not Mrs. Spettigue now?”

“I’m afraid not,” Laura confessed with much contrition.

“You’re not married at all?”

“No,” said Laura, hanging her head. One saw that she was now overwhelmed with shame at the thought of her base deception.

“Then who are you?”

“I’m—I’m usually known as Chicago Kate,” Laura said in a very small voice. “I’m supposed to be the cleverest woman thief in the world,” she added with simple pride, brightening a little.

“Bless my soul!” said Mr. Priestley, gazing at her with renewed interest. She looked very young for so notorious a person.

As he gazed Mr. Priestley felt a guilty thrill run through him. Abandoned she might be, but indubitably she was charming; and he was committed to a desperate adventure with her. His fate was linked with hers, in fact, not only literally but metaphorically too. They were joined together not only by a handcuff, but by the joint secret of what Mr. Priestley even now could not bring himself to regard as murder. Dash it all, he had never meant to kill the man! He would never have dreamed of firing if he had even distantly suspected the revolver of being loaded. Manslaughter, perhaps, and most reprehensible; but certainly not murder.

It came to Mr. Priestley with a shock of surprise to find how singularly lightly this man’s death sat upon his conscience at that moment. Probably reaction would come later and he would be properly horrified, but just at the moment his mind was far busier with other matters.

“Well,” he resumed briskly, “what I propose is that we push on a little farther, and then set about borrowing a file. Of course we must take obvious precautions. We must not stop at a place which is likely to be on the telephone, and as we shall appear to be—h’m!—holding hands, I think we should have some story prepared to account for any awkward questions.”

“Oh, Mr. Mullins,” exclaimed his companion delightedly, “it’s a positive pleasure to crack a crib with you. You think of everything.”

Mr. Priestley, who was also of the opinion that his strategy was not too short-sighted, blushed modestly. It was on the tip of his tongue to reveal the fact that he was not Mr. Mullins at all, but a private citizen of hitherto unblemished reputation, but foreseeing embarrassing queries as to the exact identity of the hitherto blameless citizen, he chose the path of prudence. Mr. Priestley had always been jealous of his good name, and it looked as if he would need in the near future all the jealousy he could muster.

“And you don’t look like a burglar a bit,” continued the girl warmly. “No wonder they call you Gentleman Joe. I must get you to tell me some time about that time when you stole the Countess of Kentisbeare’s diamonds, disguised as a dumb waiter, and knocked out two policeman and the butler. Ah, yes, you see I know all about you. These things get round the underworld. By the way, do you work on cocaine or morphia? Personally I always use strychnine; a little strychnine in half a tumbler of soda makes me feel capable of anything. That’s how I escaped from Sing-sing, as you’ve probably heard.”

“Erh’rrrrrm!” coughed Mr. Priestley, somewhat uneasy at the technical turn of the conversation; he did not feel yet quite up to a professional chat with this nefarious young woman. “Yes, yes, of course. Now what about moving on? How are we going to dispose ourselves?”

“Well, if you don’t want to kneel on the floor,” said the nefarious young woman regretfully, “I’m very much afraid you’ll have to stay where you are. I’ve been thinking, and I really can’t see any other way.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Priestley, without joy. He brightened as an idea occurred to him—a wicked idea, quite in keeping with all his other devilry. He spoke in an exceedingly airy way. “How would it do,” said Mr. Priestley very airily, “if I sat where you’re sitting, and you sat—er—on my knee?”

“I’d love to sit on your knee, Mr. Mullins,” said the young woman frankly. “It would be great fun. But unfortunately I couldn’t drive the car at the same time, you see; I couldn’t reach either the pedals or the gears. Besides, it is rather a whole-time occupation, isn’t it? Which do you think is the more important?”

From the slightly mocking tone in her voice Mr. Priestley understood that his wickedness had been unmasked. “Yes—er—quite so. Then perhaps we had better go on as we are. But this time,” he added in heartfelt tones, “please don’t drive quite so fast.”

They went on, at a pace round but reasonable.

This time rational converse was more possible.

“Where are we going?” asked Laura, who had been taking a mild pleasure during the last three miles in changing her gears as often as possible, causing Mr. Priestley each time to dive hurriedly over the side of the car as if trying to catch crabs in a pool.

In the intervals of diving, Mr. Priestley had been debating this question with some anxiety. So far as he could see there was only one course open to them. It was a course which he did not choose with any degree of eager gladness, but he could find no other.

What was in Mr. Priestley’s mind was the plain fact that for two people, linked together by an obviously official pair of handcuffs, to call in at the village blacksmith’s and request the use of a file was to invite suspicion—more, to stand up and loudly demand suspicion.

However simple a village blacksmith may be expected to be, there are some things which become obtrusive to the most half-witted mind, and of these, handcuffs take pride of place. Naturally Mr. Priestley had cast about for a plausible story to explain away these awkward ornaments, but it is surprising how thin the most plausible story explanatory of handcuffs can sound.

No; the thing to do was to stop ostensibly for some other reason, and to demand a file by way of an afterthought or make-weight. And where could the complement of a two-seater more reasonably stop than at a wayside hostelry, demanding food? To ask for a file in order to effect a minor adjustment to the car’s interior while the meal was being prepared, was the most natural thing in the world. Almost anybody can stop at a wayside hostelry and order a file with his dinner without incurring the slightest suspicion.

Mr. Priestley communicated the sum of his reflections to his cuff-mate.

To his relief she gave a ready assent.

With some trepidation he went on to elaborate his theme.

“And—er—touching the story we ought to have ready,” he went on with painful nonchalance, “I think it would be best if we pretended to be—that is, if it came to the point when it was advisable to—er—to be anything, so to speak—I think we had better—that is to say, I feel,” said Mr. Priestley with a good deal of earnestness, “that we should pretend to be—h’m!”

“I give it up; what’s the answer?” remarked the young woman, hurriedly changing her gear.

Mr. Priestley caught a crab and returned to the surface. “An—an eloping couple!” he gulped. “A—a honeymoon couple,” he amplified, “who have eloped.”

Once again Mr. Priestley was charmed and relieved at the way in which his companion received his suggestions. “Oh, good!” she exclaimed. “What a brilliant idea! You mean, because we shall have to hold hands whenever any one’s looking at us?”

“That’s right,” beamed Mr. Priestley, who had meant that very thing, but had not quite liked to say so. Mr. Priestley was a man of very delicate susceptibilities.

“And look!” cried the girl, checking the car’s speed so abruptly that Mr. Priestley was all but thrown off his perch. “Look, isn’t this an inn just here? Yes, I’m sure it is. We’ll put our fortunes to the test this very moment.”

She came to a halt a few yards past the house in question, and got out of the car, Mr. Priestley following her politely in over the side and out through the door.

They approached the house and tried the front-door. It was locked. Over their heads an inn-sign creaked, but no life was visible. The windows were black masses and no sound could be heard. His heart bumping strangely, Mr. Priestley rang the bell. Nothing happened. He rang it again. Then he knocked, loudly.

A window above his head opened and a large voice asked him what he wanted.

Somewhat apologetically Mr. Priestley intimated that he would like a little nourishment.

Without any signs of apology the large voice told him very plainly that he could not have any, that couldn’t he see the place was closed, and what did he think he was doing, knocking respectable people up at that hour? Before Mr. Priestley could reply, the window was closed with a bang of finality.

“So now,” said Mr. Priestley with unabated optimism, “we’d better try somewhere else.”

They tried a little farther down the road. The village in which they had now discovered themselves to be, possessed, as do all self-respecting villages, one public-house to every three private ones. There were six houses in the village, and an inn at each end. They repeated the procedure at the second one.

They went on repeating it.

“I’m all in favour of early hours for our rural population,” observed Laura with some feeling, as Mr. Priestley beat his fifth tattoo on the door, “but this seems to me to be overdoing it.” And her teeth chattered slightly for the night was getting cold, as early April nights will. She began to think rather longingly of her snug little bed, now some thirty odd miles away, and in an unknown direction.

Mr. Priestley, who had been introducing some pleasing variations on his solo on the front door (an unmusical instrument at the best of times) by a few tasteful effects in bell-ringing, now added to his orchestra the human larynx. “Hi!” chanted Mr. Priestley. “Hi! Ho! Oi!”

The reply was speedy, if not all that could be desired. It took the form of a pitcher of cold water and it was directed with equal accuracy at both the musician and his attendant.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” spluttered Mr. Priestley, and the intensity of his feelings may be gauged from the fact that this was the first expletive he had employed during the whole of this memorable evening. “Tl break the door down after that. I’ll—I’ll——”

“Perhaps that’ll learn you to stop your monkey-tricks, Joe Pearson,” observed an irate female voice, not without a certain satisfaction. Once more a window was forcibly closed.

“I’m drenched,” said Laura, quite calmly. “Are you?”

Her casual tone impressed Mr. Priestley. She might have been remarking that the evenings were beginning to draw out now. He began to see how this young woman had risen to such an eminent height in her profession.

“Oh, quite,” he answered, striving to imitate her nonchalance. “H’m, yes, quite. Er—I wonder what we’d better do now.”

“Well, I think we’ll move away from here first. She may have a bath handy, mayn’t she?”

Somewhat depressed, they made their way back to the car. The desire to borrow a file in our rural districts is apparently attended by the most unforeseen results.

“Well, there’s only one thing for it,” said the indomitable Mr. Priestley. “We must try somewhere else.”

As they scrambled mournfully aboard Laura began for the first time seriously to contemplate giving up the whole thing. The tables had been turned on her. She had gone forth in the lightness of her heart, and she had been received with cold water. She felt she had a more than ordinarily big grievance against the wielder of that pitcher. Why couldn’t the idiot have seen that she was having a glorious rag with Mr. Priestley and played up accordingly? It was most annoying. And now she was wet through, chilled to the bone, and very hungry, her teeth were chattering, her hands were cold, and she didn’t like handcuffs one little bit. Why not chuck the whole silly joke (as it was now quite plainly displaying itself to be) and go back to warmth, comfort, and files? Guy would have squared that blundering policeman by this time, and the coast would be clear. Her heart began to rise from its gloom.

Then it sank abruptly. Home was thirty certain miles away, and unknown miles at that—probably sixty before they had finished losing their way. At least two hours, if not more. And in two hours’ time, in the present state of things, Laura had no doubt she would be a solid block of ice, and still handcuffed to another block of ice. Oh, drat!

“Well, where are we going?” she asked quite peevishly as they left the ill-omened village behind them.

Mr. Priestley was surprised at the peevishness. It did not harmonise with the height of the profession. Also he mildly resented it. It was as if she were blaming him for that confounded water.

“Te try our luck somewhere else, I suppose,” he replied almost tartly. “Unless you can think of a better plan?” he added nastily.

It was on the tip of Laura’s tongue to reply that she certainly could not have thought of a worse one, but she refrained. She was just a girl, and she did realise that Mr. Priestley had not emptied that water over himself and her on purpose. She said nothing.

They drove on in moody silence.

“A file!” cried Mr. Priestley to his immortal soul. “My bachelor flat for a file!”

“A fire and food!” rose Laura’s silent wail. “This whole silly joke, and all future rights in hoaxing the Police Force, for fire and food!”

They drove on and on and on.

And then, almost at the last shiver, their luck turned. Looming up out of the darkness was another unmistakable inn, this time not in a village but standing alone on the high road. A delectable inn, it seemed, set back just a little from the highway and with—oh, ineffable joy!—a brilliantly lighted upper window. Hope once more bubbling up in their chilled bosoms, the adventurers disembarked.

Mr. Priestley’s very first knock brought hurrying footsteps.

“Who—who’s there?” asked a somewhat quavering feminine voice from inside.

Mr. Priestley was so delighted to hear tones of anxiety rather than abuse that he bestowed on the hand which he was already prudently holding, an involuntary squeeze. The hand squeezed back. Its owner had sensed beautiful warmth and delectable food on the farther side of that door and she was ready to squeeze anything. The thought of dry warmth and food was already making Laura feel her own girl again.

“Friends!” said Mr. Priestley briskly. “I mean, travellers. Can you give us something to eat, and———” He checked himself. It might be suspicious to touch upon the subject of files quite so soon, “—and drink,” he amended.

There was the sound of bars unbolted and creaking locks and the door swung open. Framed in the doorway against a background of warm glowing red was a small woman of late middle-age, her features beaming joyous welcome.

“Well, there!” said the small woman. “And I thought it might be robbers. What with my husband being away and me alone in the house, as you might say, Annie not counting one way or the other, I was just beginning to get that scared. Couldn’t bring myself to go to bed; I couldn’t! And then when you knocked, ‘They’ve come!’ I said to meself. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it mightn’t be, after all. P’raps I’d better see.’ But I was trembling like a leaf as I came down the stairs, and then——”

“Er—did you say your husband is away?” Mr. Priestley broke in upon this harangue. Somehow, it made him feel very happy to learn that the small woman’s probably large husband was away. And Annie, it appeared, did not count one way or the other.

“Yes, that he is,” replied the small woman volubly. “First time he’s slep’ away from me for nigh on fifteen years, but business is business, he said, and—— But what am I doing, keeping you on the doorstep? Come in, sir, you and your lady. And a blessing it is to see you, I will say. I like a man in the house at nights, I do. You’ll be wanting a bedroom, of course. Well, there’s one all ready. Clean sheets and pillow-cases on this morning, I put, just in case. One never knows, does one? And some food, you said? Well, there’s only——”

“We shan’t want—er—a bedroom,” Mr. Priestley interrupted again, “We shall be going on again. We just want some food—anything, it doesn’t matter what—in a private sitting-room, and—er—a file. Our car has something wrong with it,” explained Mr. Priestley earnestly, “and we’ve run out of—I mean, we want a file. Have you got a file?”

“Well, yes, sir, I think so,” said the little landlady rather doubtfully. “If you and your lady will just come inside, I’ll run and look in the box my husband keeps his tools in. And a sitting-room? Well, there is a sitting-room, of course, but seeing what a cold night it is wouldn’t you rather have something by the kitchen fire? Not if you wouldn’t like it, of course, and there’s plenty that wouldn’t; but just step in, sir, and——”

“No,” said Mr. Priestley firmly. “We won’t come in yet. We’re very anxious to get our car repaired first. If you’ll get us the file at once, we can be getting on with it while you’re laying our supper. Don’t you think so—er—my dear?”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Priestley’s newly adopted dear. “And we’ll have our supper in the kitchen, I think, darling,” she added with a large shiver. She had not spoken before, because she was curious to see how Mr. Priestley would handle things, but she was not going to leave that fire to chance.

Mr. Priestley blushed pleasantly at this wifely endearment and coughed.

“Very well,” the landlady acquiesced. “I’ll get you the file at once then and your supper will be ready in ten minutes. But wouldn’t the lady like to come in and get warm while you’re doing the motor, sir?”

“Oh, no, thank you,” Laura explained gravely. “My husband always likes me to hold the car for him while he’s doing anything to it.”

The landlady looked upon this charming couple, holding hands affectionately on her very doorstep, and her heart warmed towards them. Obviously they were very much in love, and probably quite recently married. The glamour of their romance threw itself round her own thin shoulders.

“Very well,” she said again, this time with a particular smile for Laura’s benefit—the smile which an elder married woman bestows upon a newly married one who, though a stranger, is yet one with her in the freemasonry of the married woman. It means: “So now you can see through the funny old things too!” And still smiling, the little landlady scurried off in search of a file.

“At last!” breathed Mr. Priestley on the doorstep.

“We’ll s-soon be warm n-now,” chattered Laura. “Is pneumonia very unp-pleasant, Mr. Mullins?”

Evidently the absent landlord possessed a proper feeling for the emergencies of life. In one minute his wife returned, an unmistakable file in her hand.

“There you are, sir,” she beamed. “It’s the only one. Will it do?”

Mr. Priestley took it in a quivering grasp. “Oh, yes,” he said. “It’ll do. Thank you.”

As they vanished hastily from her sight the landlady contrived to throw another understanding smile at Laura. This smile said, as eloquently as a smile may: “We have to humour them, don’t we? You and I know better than to go playing with files, but if they like it—well, bless their funny old hearts! Let them enjoy themselves.” It was a very eloquent smile indeed.

The next moment the two were safely round the corner in the shadows, the precious file gripped tightly in Mr. Priestley’s chilled hand. He set to work on a link of the chain which held the two cuffs together. Their position was not an easy one and the rasping of the file chafed both their wrists unpleasantly, but it was no time to worry over little things like that.

Ten minutes later he was still working. But by now he was nice and warm.

Laura, on the other hand, was still cold, and getting colder every minute.

“Is it going to take a dreadful time?” she asked at last, her lips blue and her teeth chattering volubly.

Mr. Priestley desisted from his efforts. He felt the file with his fingers and then, confirming a horrid theory, held it up against the light from the window. “I’m afraid it is,” he said dolefully. “At least, with this file. You see, the steel of the handcuffs is evidently harder than the file. What is happening is that the cuffs are filing away the file.”

“Oh!” said Laura, and thought unprintable things.

“And she said it was her only one,” remarked Mr. Priestley morosely. “Damn that policeman!” he added with sudden vehemence.

They stared at one another.

“Well, anyhow,” said Laura, “I’m not going to step outside any longer. I’m going in. You can tell the landlady anything you like—that we did it for a bet, or that we only got married this morning and the clergyman put them on by mistake instead of the ring. I don’t care. I’m going in to that fire. Come on!”

Mr. Priestley, having no option except brute force, came.

The landlady was still bustling about in the kitchen as they entered her presence, walking delicately and with hands still affectionately clasped. Under their coat-sleeves the handcuffs nestled out of sight.

“Well, sir, have you mended your motor?” asked the little landlady cheerfully, adding in the same breath, “Your supper’s quite ready. If you want me, just call up the stairs. I know you’d like to be alone, wouldn’t you?” This was said with an arch smile, to which both her guests failed signally to respond.

“Thank you,” mumbled Mr. Priestley. “Thank you.”

A solicitous look replaced the arch expression on the kindly little woman’s face. “Why, good gracious me!” she exclaimed in horror. “You’re wet through, both of you!”

Mr. Priestley moved uneasily. “Yes,” he muttered. “A—a little bit, yes. We—er—ran into a storm.”

“Well, you can’t have your supper like that, and that’s a fact,” said the landlady with unwelcome decision. “You just slip your wet things off and put them to dry in front of the fire, and I’ll run up and get you each a nice warm coat or something. You’ll catch your death of cold if you’re not careful.”

Mr. Priestley’s uneasiness became more pronounced. It also says much for Laura’s state of mind that she had not to trouble to hide a smile. Laura was not feeling very like smiling at the moment.

“Oh, I—er—please don’t bother,” said Mr. Priestley hastily. “We’re—we’re not a bit wet underneath, thank you. We’ll just have our supper, and then we’ll be getting along; and we can dry ourselves quite nicely by the fire as we are. We’ll call you if we want you,” he added with sudden firmness, noticing signs of voluble expostulation appearing in the landlady’s face.

His firmness was rewarded. She retired. With obvious reluctance, but she did retire.

“This is a nice state of things,” muttered Laura, in tones that were only just not accusing. Laura’s sense of humour was succumbing at last to the severe shocks it had been receiving.

It was on the tip of Mr. Priestley’s tongue to retort with tartness and truth that she had only herself to blame for it, but he desisted. Instead he said: “Well, you haven’t killed a man.”

If she could have thought that it would help the situation in any way, Laura would have retorted: “Well, neither have you, you silly little man! You’ve been hoaxed, if you want to know.” But she could not see that it would be the least use to her. Besides, why should she do all the suffering? Let him think what he did think, and be as worried about it as he liked. She had, furthermore, not the least wish to hear Mr. Priestley pointing out that the hoax seemed to have recoiled on its perpetrator’s head.

“Well, let’s have some food anyhow,” she said ungraciously, “we’re both in the same box.”

“And the same handcuff,” replied Mr. Priestley humorously, striving to cheer things up.

Laura did not smile.

They held the bread together, while Mr. Priestley cut it. The meal began in silence.

It continued mostly in silence too. Any necessary remarks were exchanged curtly. Only once did either of them give way for a moment, and that was when Laura’s intention to drink her cocoa coincided with Mr. Priestley’s desire for more butter. The result was that Laura’s cocoa plunged hastily into her lap, where it mingled with the water that had already found its billet there. She drank Mr. Priestley’s cocoa instead, on that gentleman’s firm insistence, but it did not really appease her.

When they had finished they steamed gloomily in front of the fire for a space. Their garments hung clammily upon them.

There is nothing like clamminess to bring out the worst in a man or woman. Mr. Priestley felt clamminess invading his very soul, and the more clammy his outer person became the more sore he felt inside. Here had he, a respectable citizen, been inveigled by this abandoned and now thoroughly distasteful young woman (had he really at one time for a fleeting moment thought her charming? Had he really?) into an attempt at barefaced robbery, he had killed a man for her sake, he had locked a policeman in a cupboard, he had rescued her from an extremely awkward set of circumstances so that she was indebted to him not only for her liberty, but possibly for her life as well—he had done all this, and what was his reward? To have his hot cocoa drunk for him, and be snapped at for offering it! Life looked a gloomy proposition to Mr. Priestley.

“I suppose you’ve tried to wriggle your hand out?” he asked, when the silence had threatened to become too embarrassing.

“Am I a complete fool?” asked the lady shortly.

The question had certainly not been a very brilliant one, but then neither was the answer tactful. Mr. Priestley’s reply was still less so. He did not say “Yes!” because that would have been rude; he just said, quite politely, “That remains to be seen.”

Laura snorted.

The snort seemed to nerve Mr. Priestley. He started slightly, looked at his companion, and then strode towards the door. Laura followed him. Mr. Priestley, radiating stern decision like the men wearing electric belts in the advertisements, flung open the door and called up the stairs.

“Mrs. Errh’m!” called Mr. Priestley. “I’ve changed my mind. We’ll have that bedroom of yours after all. Will you take some hot water along there, please?”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir, certainly, sir,” floated down from above.

Laura flung the door to and stared at this new version of Mr. Priestley. It was as if she were trying to look through his head to see the horns which must be sprouting there, and his boots for the cloven hoofs which must be hidden inside them. Her face grew interestingly crimson.

“How—how dare you?” she gasped. “Are you a complete cad?”

Mr. Priestley grew crimson also. “What on earth’s the matter?” he snapped. “You’re not making a fuss about a little thing like that, surely? You, of all people!”

Laura continued to gasp, this time speechlessly.

“If it’s your reputation you’re thinking of,” nastily continued Mr. Priestley, who really was extremely annoyed, “it’s a pity you didn’t think of it long ago, before you took to thieving. Reputation, indeed! Fine reputation you’ve got, haven’t you? The cleverest woman thief in the world, indeed!” It must be admitted that there were no excuses for Mr. Priestley, but no man likes being called a cad, and Mr. Priestley’s horizon at that moment was bound with red; moreover, he was in an acute state of nerves. He had, you must remember, killed a man; and a thing like that is liable to upset the most equable of temperaments.

Laura opened her mouth, but no words came. Perhaps because there were none to come.

“But I see through you by this time,” Mr. Priestley went on, lashing himself as he went. “You took me in at first with your pathetic story about stolen letters, but you don’t take me in again, young woman! You’re a hypocrite, and that’s the long and the short of it. At one moment butter won’t melt in your mouth, at the next you’re tricking me into shooting a perfectly innocent man. It’s my belief that you knew the whole time that that revolver was loaded. And if you think,” concluded Mr. Priestley with incredible ferocity, “that I’m going to let your hypocritical pretences of morality and reputation jeopardise my safety, you’re making a very large mistake, young woman!”

It has been said that only once in her life had Dora Howard met her match, and the consequences were drastic. The same important event had now happened to Laura, and the consequences were designed to be, in their own way, no less drastic. For the moment, with every light-hearted word of her own recoiling heavily against her and completely bereft of all argument or reasonable basis of expostulation, she could do nothing but stand, very white-faced now instead of crimson, and gasp in silence.

Into this pause floated again the voice of the landlady. “I’ve taken the hot water along, sir. Are you coming up now?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Priestley grimly, flung open the door once more and began to mount the stairs.

Willy-nilly, Laura went with him.

Chapter VII.
Inspector Cottingham Smells Blood

If anybody had told Guy Nesbitt, a few hours earlier, that at twelve o’clock the same night he would be engaged in a whole-hearted attempt to hoodwink the official police force, the proprietor of an important newspaper and the entire British public, as if they had all been provided with one enormous joint leg for hauling purposes, he would have repudiated the suggestion with grief and amazement. And rightly, notwithstanding the subsequent event, because these things cannot be concocted in cold blood.

One does not remark casually over one’s second cup of tea: “By the way, you people, an idea’s just occurred to me for hoaxing the British Broadcasting Company rather neatly. Anybody care to give me a hand? I shall tell them, you see, that I’ve got a trained rabbit that gives organ recitals, and …” Certainly not. But give the average law-respecting Briton (which Guy was not, nor yet Mr. Doyle, but George was) a modicum of sound alcohol to titillate his sense of humour into a slightly perverted form, taunt him through the mouth of one friend with inability to carry the thing through, egg him on through the lips of another to show the stuff he is made of, and smile at him through his wife’s eyes as if to say, “Dear old Guy! Oh yes, my dear, he often talks like this—but bless you, he’d never do anything. Oh, dear no!”—do these things to him, and then be very careful not to answer for the consequences. For consequences will certainly occur. In cold blood George would never have considered that he possessed any corpse-imitating properties at all.

At twelve o’clock, then, two people stood in Guy’s drawing-room and dithered; two others watched them happily. The ditherers were the constable, who had been keeping it up for the last hour, and Mr. Foster. These two victims of the modern cinema were being watched by Guy himself, with critical appreciation of their efforts towards his ends, and by Inspector Cottingham, of the Abingchester Police.

Inspector Cottingham was a fatherly man, with a large walrus moustache, and he was very, very happy. He had not only smelt blood, he had actually seen it. He had, not to disguise the truth, gloated over it. Blood very seldom comes the way of a country Inspector of Police.

Inspector Cottingham however, had been blessed above most country Inspectors, for this was the second time blood had come his way. Many, many years ago, when the Inspector had been a mere Sergeant, a small village outside Abingchester had startled the placid neighbourhood by becoming the scene of a particularly brutal and mysterious murder, and Sergeant Cottingham had taken the matter in hand. To the admiration of the neighbourhood, and the intense surprise of his superior officers, the Sergeant, by a series of brilliant deductions, had followed an obscure trail to the person of the murderer, who, sharing the astonishment of the Sergeant’s superiors, had been so taken aback as to confess at once to the crime.

This confession was very fortunate for the Sergeant. It obviated all necessity to produce the person of a certain Ethel Wilkinson, a labourer’s daughter, who had actually seen the murder committed, had told the Sergeant all about it, and had pointed out to him the clues which had so won the Chief Constable’s admiration—a series of facts which the Sergeant had prudently concealed. Ethel Wilkinson, who had no wish to be mixed up in such a sordid affair and help to put a rope round a fellow-creature’s neck, had been grateful to the Sergeant for keeping her name out of it and had never breathed a word of her knowledge from that day; the Sergeant had been no less grateful to Ethel Wilkinson. The Chief Constable, sharing in the general gratitude, had come to the conclusion that he had misjudged a very sound man and had caused the Sergeant to be promoted, by way of some small reward, to the rank of Inspector. Ever since then Inspector Cottingham had naturally been the district’s sage and authority where the science of criminal detection was concerned.

He was now once more in his element, trying to obtain something remotely approaching a connected story from the two chief witnesses. He was an optimistic man, and he had no doubt that somebody must have seen the murder committed once more.

Guy’s story he had heard already. That was simplicity itself. Guy had been summoned away immediately after dinner by a note purporting to come from an old friend of his who had just taken a house a few miles away. He had gone off at once in the car with his wife, and after spending nearly three hours in trying to find the house had come to the conclusion that the address did not exist at all. He had thereupon returned. In the course of his journeying the note had most unfortunately been thrown away in disgust. Mrs. Nesbitt had corroborated these particulars and then retired, somewhat hurriedly (but that was hardly surprising), to bed. Cynthia, in fact, had chosen the path of prudence rather than bravado. Otherwise there would have now been three ditherers in the drawing-room instead of two. Cynthia was very decidedly alarmed—and she was a poor liar.

“Be quiet, you, Graves!” bellowed Inspector Cottingham, rounding suddenly with portentous authority upon his underling. “I’ve heard what you’ve got to say, and the less you talk about it the better; it don’t do you much credit, when all’s said and done. And how on earth do you expect me to understand what this gentleman’s trying to tell me, if you will keep on about that blessed cupboard? I’m sick and tired of that cupboard.” Inspector Cottingham was also a little jealous of that cupboard, but he could hardly tell a subordinate that. The cupboard, Inspector Cottingham could not help feeling, was the place where somebody ought to have contrived that he himself should have been the whole time, if the game had been played according to its proper rules.

“Now, sir, if you please,” he added, turning back to Mr. Foster. “The whole story right through, please, in your own words.”

Mr. Foster, who in any case had nobody else’s words in which to tell his story, complied with alacrity. He was a tubby, rather red little man, and at the moment he looked as if he were suffering from an acute attack of apoplexy. His slightly prominent, pale-blue eyes stood out farther than ever, his wide loose-lipped mouth gaped with the unspoken words seeking egress, his sanguine countenance was mottled with earnest perspiration. He swept himself along in the flood-tide of his own speech.

Guy listened with puckish delight concealed beneath the grave countenance proper to the occasion. His acquaintance with Mr. Foster had not been long, but it had been very intense. Acquaintance with Mr. Foster was like that. He pervaded as well as clung. One may dismiss limpets with an airy gesture, one may disregard the crab affixed to one’s toe, one may smile in an atmosphere of poison-gas; but one was still unfitted to cope with Mr. Reginald Foster. And the desolating, the heartrending, the utterly unforgivable thing was that Mr. Reginald Foster meant so well. Give us malice, surround us with backbiters, fill our house with blackguards; but Heaven defend us from the well-meaning bore.

Mr. Foster spluttered on. He had a good story to tell, and he was making the most of it.

“Crown Prince, eh?” interrupted the Inspector, now thoroughly genial again. “Crown Prince?”

Mr. Foster nodded importantly. “That’s what she said, Inspector, yes. Crown Prince.” The words slid smoothly off his tongue, like salad oil off the poised tablespoon.

“Perhaps you misunderstood her, Foster,” put in Guy, who was not feeling any too happy about the Crown Prince; he felt that to drag in Royalty was really overdoing it a little.

“She said Crown Prince,” persisted Mr. Foster. One gathered that, in Mr. Foster’s opinion, what she said went.

“That’s right,” ventured the constable. “All covered with ribbons an’ things, he was. Medals, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Tl! take your statement later, Graves,” boomed the Inspector. The constable retired.

“Crown Prince,” repeated Mr. Foster, with the air of one clinching a point.

The Inspector was only too ready to have the point clinched. He clinched it in his notebook. “Yes, sir?” he cooed. If a corpse and two murderers make a sergeant, what does not a Crown Prince and a whole gang make an Inspector? Besides, somebody was sure to turn up.

Mr. Foster continued, rapidly and with purpose.

“Man with the Broken Nose?” gloated the Inspector, and moistened his pencil once more.

With reluctance Mr. Foster brought his story to a conclusion. As if he had timed his entrance for the same moment (which, in point of fact, he had) Mr. Doyle strolled casually into the room.

“Hallo, Nesbitt,” he said, as if not noticing the other three. “Saw your lights on and your library windows open, so I walked over. Hope you don’t mind. George wanted to know rather particularly whether you could—but am I interrupting a conference or something?”

“Not a bit,” said Guy heartily. “Let me introduce you. Mr. Foster, Inspector Cottingham—Mr. Doyle. You’ve just come at the right moment, Doyle. The most extraordinary things have been happening here this evening.”

“Really?” said Mr. Doyle with polite interest.

The Inspector’s frown had brightened, only to darken a moment later. He tapped his pencil with his teeth. Evidently the new arrival was not the person who ought to be turning up.

Guy hastened to put things on a different footing. “Mr. Doyle is staying with our next-door neighbours,” he told the Inspector. “Just the man you want to see. You’ll want to ask him whether they’ve seen anything of all this business, won’t you?”

The Inspector, who had not thought of any such thing, brightened again. Guy had spoken with such deference in the presence of the expert that nobody could have taken offence. Instead, the Inspector took the suggestion.

“That’s right, sir,” he agreed paternally. “I shall want to put a few questions to Mr. Doyle in a minute.”

“Well, just give him an outline of the affair, Inspector, will you? I’m going off to see if I can’t find a decanter of something. I think the occasion requires it.” He went out of the room.

The Inspector, who had begun to look somewhat doubtful at Guy’s first suggestion, changed his expression before the second one. Of course, if they were all going to be friends together, as it were…. He embarked on a brief résumé of the chief facts, as gleaned from his two witnesses. Mr. Doyle commented fittingly.

When Guy returned Mr. Doyle was displaying the gifts which fitted him for the exacting profession of journalism. “This is great, Inspector,” he was saying warmly. “You’ve got the most magnificent opportunity ever presented to an Inspector of Police. Properly handled, this business is going to make your name for you.”

“It may do me a bit of good, sir, yes,” agreed the Inspector modestly, wondering whether this engaging young man had ever heard of the Garfield case, and if not, how he could tactfully enlighten him.

“Do you a bit of good! My dear chap, it’s going to make you famous. And look here,” added Mr. Doyle very innocently, “I may be able to be a little use to you. I’m a journalist, did you know? I can guarantee you a couple of columns in The Courier, with your name splashed about all over it. Nothing like publicity in a big London paper to help a good man to get on, you know.” Mr. Doyle managed to convey the impression that he had the editor and organisation of The Courier attached to the end of a string, only waiting for him to jerk it.

The Inspector, who, less tactfully handled, might have repented of his confidences on learning the newcomer’s identity, at once saw very clearly that he need do nothing of the sort. More, he was able to congratulate himself on his far-sightedness in making them. He was quite well aware that important London newspapers can do a very great deal for an able but unknown country policeman; quite well aware. He accepted the offer, with dignified — careful nonchalance. Guy interposed with interesting questions connected with the decanter and siphon in his hands, and all was joy and loving-kindness.

“Extraordinary! Almost incredible!” remarked Mr. Foster, immediately the conversation presented him with an opening for the insertion of his own voice. “This affair is going to make the name of Duffley ring throughout the length and breadth of the land, gentlemen.”

Mr. Foster was not unpleasantly aware that it would also make the name of Mr. Reginald Foster reverberate in a similar manner. A happy old age for Mr. Foster was assured, after a still more happy middle-age. He saw himself for weeks on end surrounded by eager reporters, their note-books at the ready; he saw his name familiar in men’s mouths as a household word; he saw himself pointed out in the street for years to come as “Oh, look, dear—there’s Reginald Foster! You remember—the man who showed up so awfully well in that extraordinary business about the murder of the Crown Prince of X at Duffley, years ago. They say he goes to stay at the Palace every year on the anniversary. They say he calls all the Royal Family by their Christian names. Of course he’s a wonderful man, though. It was really he who got the murderers brought to justice, you know. Yes, I believe there was a Police Inspector in it, too, but, of course, it was Reginald Foster——” Mr. Foster’s imagination ran blithely on, chased by its breathless owner.

“Indeed it is,” replied Doyle heartily. “I’ll see to that.” And he looked at the Inspector as if to add that he would see that that gentleman’s name rang in harmony with it.

The Inspector wondered harder than ever how to begin the enlightening process.

“But who is the Crown Prince?” demanded Mr. Foster earnestly. “That’s what I want to know. What Crown Prince? Now, it seems to me, Inspector, that what you ought to do is to get on the telephone at once to the Home Secretary, tell him what’s happened (I’ll corroborate your story, of course), and ask him what Crown Princes are known to be absent from their countries at the moment. Or perhaps the Foreign Office would be better.

“Yes,” decided Mr. Foster, “I think it should be the Foreign Office. Why, who knows what this may lead to? It may be another Serajevo! It may precipitate another European war! Goodness knows what may not happen. We must be very discreet, gentlemen,” said Mr. Foster weightily. “Very discreet indeed. But, of course,” he added thoughtfully, “we should do nothing to interfere with the freedom of the press. Undoubtedly a full story must be got through to The Courier at once. Why not get on the telephone to them at once, Mr. Doyle? Yes,” concluded Mr. Foster handsomely, “urgent though our business with the Foreign Secretary is, I do think we should communicate with the press first of all.” He ceased, because the most determined men must draw breath sometimes.

The Inspector eyed Mr. Foster with distaste. Mr. Foster did not appear to realise that he was not the person in charge here. If Foreign Secretaries had to be communicated with, then the police officer in charge was the man to take the decision, not a mere outsider who happened to be invested with a fortuitous importance as a mere corroborative witness. The Inspector felt decidedly that Mr. Foster showed every sign of becoming a thorn in his flesh. And what does one do with thorns in the flesh? Pluck them out, of course.

“I must ask you, sir,” said the Inspector, with none of his usual geniality, noting with pleasure that Mr. Foster in his excitement had drained his glass, “I must ask you to go back to your own house now. I have some important questions, of an ’ighly—h’m!—of a highly confidential nature to put to Mr. Nesbitt here, and it won’t be in order for you to be present. I will communicate with you,” said the Inspector with dignity, “when I want you.”

Mr. Foster’s face fell with an almost audible thud. He expostulated. The Inspector was firm. He implored. The Inspector was adamant. He argued. The Inspector became peremptory.

And then Mr. Foster made a very bad move. He asked point-blank whether Mr. Doyle, a real interloper, was to remain while he himself, of vital importance to the case, was thus summarily dismissed; and he asked it very rudely. Not content with this, in the same breath he accused his antagonist of favouritism and threatened reprisals. He further added his doubts regarding the Inspector’s knowledge of his own job.

The breach was complete. The hero of the Garfield case turned to his underling and became very official indeed. With technical efficiency, the remains of Mr. Foster were removed by the underling from the room.

“You’re not—you’re not going to arrest him, Inspector, are you?” asked Doyle, when he had recovered from the fit of coughing which had caused him to bury his face in his handkerchief. Guy’s features, it may be remarked, had expressed absolutely nothing at all beyond sympathy with a public servant in the execution of a painful duty.

“Not this time,” replied the Inspector with paternal regret. “But if he comes interfering with me any more in the execution of my duties and trying to teach me my own job—well, I’m not saying what mayn’t happen.”

“Quite right,” agreed Guy gravely. “Perfectly correct. Have another drink, won’t you?”

The Inspector graciously accepted this aid to the readjustment of ruffled plumes.

Constable Graves, returning a trifle heated, a few moments later, also consented to be soothed in a like manner. It would be too much to say that Constable Graves had been sulking with his superior officer; it would not be too much to say that he had been feeling a trifle resentful. This was his little murder after all; it was he who had been enclosed in the cupboard; it was his astuteness which had bidden him lie low while the body was being removed, in order to collect invaluable evidence—yet here was the Inspector taking the whole thing into his own hands, bellowing at him as if he had been the actual criminal, and not allowing him to put a word in edgeways! Constable Graves felt he had legitimate cause for resentment. He had been able to work some of it off upon Mr. Foster and now felt a little better. A contemplation of the generous allowance of whisky which Guy poured into his glass made him feel better still.

The police were not the only persons to view Mr. Foster’s retirement with complacency. Mr. Doyle was also glad to see him go. The enlistment of Mr. Foster’s aid had seemed a mixed blessing to Mr. Doyle; certainly his testimony was useful in one way, in another it was embarrassing. While feeling all proper respect for his fiancée’s nimble exploitation of the situation, he did agree with Guy that the introduction of a Crown Prince was overdoing things a little. Besides, this man Foster was such a consummate ass that he might make trouble out of sheer well-meaning enthusiasm.

Another matter was also in the forefront of Mr. Doyle’s mind. So far he had only heard the Inspector’s version of the constable’s story, and that astute man’s sojourn in the cupboard had been glossed over a little hurriedly; Inspector Cottingham seemed to feel that his subordinate’s ignominy in this connection was reflected to some degree upon himself. Mr. Doyle was now anxious to put a few questions on this subject to the principal actor.

Permission to do so having been craved of the Inspector with tactful humility and graciously given, Doyle drew the constable a little aside. Guy, seeing what was in the wind, at once engaged the Inspector in earnest conversation. Doyle found himself with more or less of a free hand.

“While you were in the cupboard, constable,” he began, “I suppose you heard these people moving about when they took away the body, didn’t you?”

The constable smiled benignly. Here, at any rate, was somebody who took him and his cupboard seriously. He expanded, both metaphorically and literally, hooking a thumb in the front of his belt as if to guard against expanding too far. “Heard ’em, sir?” he repeated benevolently. “Bless you, I saw ’em!”

With a praiseworthy effort Mr. Doyle refrained from leaping violently into the air. “The deuce you did!” he exclaimed, a little faintly. “Er—saw them, did you say?”

The constable was pleased with the evident impression he had made. He expanded a little further still, to the imminent danger of his belt.

“Yes, sir, that I did. Through the key-hole. Saw em as plainly as I see you this very minute.”

“That—that’s excellent,” said Mr. Doyle, wriggling uneasily under the constable’s kindly eye. He plunged at a question that was burning a hole in his tongue. “And—and do you think you would recognise them if you saw them again?”

“Not a doubt of it, sir,” replied the constable heartily. “Ho, yes, I’d recognise ’em quick enough. Desprit villains they was too,” he added with gusto.

Mr. Doyle was recovering his grip on himself. “That’s very important,” he said gravely. “You had a good view of them then?”

“Well,” said the constable with some reluctance, “pretty good, that is, sir. I couldn’t see ’em all the time, because of how the key-hole was facing, if you see what I mean. Just now and then I saw ’em. Pulling the body out, f’rinstance. On a mat, they did. Pulled him out on a mat. Wouldn’t ’ardly believe it, would you, sir? Now, I wonder why they did that.”

“So do I,” said Mr. Doyle in feeble agreement.

The constable ruminated. “Might just as well ’ave carried him. Not but what he wasn’t a tidy weight. Big man, he was. Crown Prince they say, don’t they?”

“So I hear. But look here, about these—er—villains, could you describe them, do you think?”

“Near enough, sir. There was two of ’em, a big feller and a little un’. One of ’em was big, you see, and the other wasn’t; well, little you might call ’im. Undersized.”

“Little will do, I think. Yes?”

“They was wearing ’ats and coats, so I couldn’t see their faces not too well, I couldn’t, but you could see they were foreigners.”

“Oh? How?”

“Because they were talking a foreign language,” returned the constable with triumph. “That’s ’ow I knew they were foreigners. They were talking a foreign language. There was a girl too.”

“A girl, eh?” said Mr. Doyle uneasily.

“Yes. I’d seen her before, of course, and let ’er slip through my fingers, I’m afraid. She knew I was in the cupboard too, but she didn’t know I was watching ’er. Funny thing, too, she’d taken off her hat and furs and things. Now I wonder why she done that?”

“Perhaps she was hot. Er—I suppose you’d recognise her again, wouldn’t you?”

“I would, and all,” replied the constable grimly.

“That’s fine,” said Mr. Doyle, without conviction. This was a snag he had not foreseen. He blessed himself for the happy piece of foolery which had caused Nesbitt and himself to dress for their part and cover their faces with the mufflers. In the meantime Dora would certainly have to lie low till she got back to London.

“Now, sir,” the Inspector’s voice remarked in rolling tones. “Now, Mr. Doyle, if you’ll come with me down the road to where you’re staying, I’d just like to ask the members of the household there if they heard anything. Mr. Howard, isn’t it? Who else is there?”

For the fraction of a second Mr. Doyle lost his head. “Nobody!” he said swiftly.

To his guilty mind it seemed as if the Inspector’s eye became suddenly less genial. “What, nobody else?” he said.

“Nobody!” repeated the guilty one firmly.

“No maids, even?”

Mr. Doyle drew a breath of relief. “No, no maids. Their maids come in by the day. Mr. Howard and I were quite alone this evening.”

“Who keeps house for him, then?”

“Oh, his sister. Er—Miss Howard. But she’s away for the week-end.” Mr. Doyle cocked an anxious eye at the door, to reassure himself that Laura was not coming down the passage towards them at that moment, complete with handcuff and accomplice.

“Oh, I see. Well, come along, then, sir. And, Graves, you’d better come, too. Thank you, Mr. Nesbitt, sir; I think I’ve finished here now. But it’s a pity you threw that note away. If you only remembered where you’d thrown it, I’d have a search made. Try and think during the next few hours. Mrs. Nesbitt might know; ask her. It’d be a valuable clue. Are you ready, then, Mr. Doyle, sir?”

As Doyle went out of the room he caught a look from Guy. The look said quite plainly: “Come back here when you’ve got rid of him.” Doyle nodded.

Followed by the constable, they made their way out to the road.

“And while I’m speaking to Mr. Howard,” remarked the Inspector very airily. “I expect you’d like to be telephoning your report through to The Courier, wouldn’t you?”

Doyle nodded. He had already taken the opportunity of ringing up The Courier, and asking the editor to hold a couple of columns for him if possible as he had a scoop of the first magnitude, and without divulging too much of its nature, he had succeeded in obtaining exceedingly good terms if it should, in the editor’s opinion, come up to its rosy forecast; it was too late to send one of The Courier’s own men down, and Doyle, being a freelance, had been able to make almost his own terms. They were very good terms indeed, and they provided for the future as well as for the present. Mr. Doyle ought to have been exceedingly buoyant.

Yet his nod in answer to the Inspector’s suggestion had been an absent one. To tell the truth, he was engaged in wondering very busily how he was going to warn George to say nothing about Dora’s presence in the house, and Dora to conceal herself with efficiency and despatch, before the Inspector surprised the truth out of either of them.

Mr. Doyle was not quite sure whether he was enjoying himself or not.

“It’s a funny business altogether,” pronounced the Inspector, as they turned in at the next gate. “Tell you what it reminds me of, sir. It’s like nothing so much as one of those shilling shockers you read on a railway journey. Now, another case of murder I had down in these parts once….”

Even that could not resolve Mr. Doyle’s perplexity for him.

Chapter VIII.
Two into One Will Go

The truth was that Mr. Priestley had suddenly given way to his overwrought nerves. He had a perfectly sound reason for wanting to get himself and his cuff-mate securely alone inside that bedroom, but when he heard himself being called a cad, before he had even had time to explain (if explanation were needed) that his intentions were strictly honourable, the words had simply frozen on his lips. The mildest of men will show signs of unrest on hearing the word “cad” directed at themselves from the lips of a pretty girl, and Mr. Priestley, as he had already proved to his own surprise, was apparently not the mildest of men. His subsequent outburst, the cumulative result of desperate anxiety manfully suppressed and blank horror, simply followed.

Before they had preceded the landlady into the charming pink-and-white bedroom, on whose hearth a fire was already miraculously burning, sanity had returned and he was mildly penitent for the freedom of his speech. Not very penitent, however, for the sooner some one told this obnoxious young woman a few home-truths, the better for the world in general.

Affectionately hand-in-hand they stood, while the landlady rapidly praised her room and apologised for it in the same breath, and, intent on their respective thoughts, heard not a single word. Mr. Priestley was now far too anxious regarding the outcome of the next few minutes to feel more than a passing embarrassment concerning that outcome’s setting; while as for Laura, that humorous young woman was still wondering in a dazed sort of way exactly what unpleasant consequences this ridiculous joke was going to bring upon her, and how on earth she was going to avoid at any rate the worst of them.

It had struck her with some force that to tell the truth now, as a last desperate resource, was simply to invite ridicule. The truth, in fact, sounded thinner than the thinnest story she could possibly invent—far less plausible than the one she had so proudly originated in the tube train about twelve years ago. Mr. Priestley would only take it as yet another of her endless subterfuges and hypocrisies, and no doubt wax correspondingly drastic. It was a singularly chastened young woman who clasped her companion’s hand with mechanical fingers and turned a dull ear to the stream of the little landlady’s volubility.

“I think you’ll find the bed comfortable, mum,” the little landlady was now saying. “Not but what it mightn’t be newer than it is, but——”

“Thank you, I’m sure we shall find it comfortable,” put in Mr. Priestley, whose one anxiety was to get the landlady out of the room and the door locked behind her.

Laura started nervously. Had she been mistaken, or was there a ring of grim triumph in Mr. Priestley’s voice? For about the first time in her life Laura began to feel seriously frightened.

With growing alarm she found her right wrist twisted round to the small of her back as Mr. Priestley put his arm about her waist and drew her towards him. She flinched, but the pressure was inexorable. Her knees feeling unpleasantly wobbly, she allowed herself to be pressed affectionately to Mr. Priestley’s side. As a matter of strict fact, all that Mr. Priestley wanted to do was to consolidate their joint front in order to advance upon the landlady in phalanx-formation and force her out of the room; but Laura did not know that. It was occurring to Laura very vividly that really one simply didn’t know where one was with men; the Girls’ Friendly Societies must be right after all; and she had thought Mr. Priestley of all men could be trusted.

By sheer weight of numbers Mr. Priestley succeeded in driving the landlady to the door. The landlady did not wish to go at all. Beside her natural desire to give her tongue a little trot after having had nobody to exercise it for her since four o’clock that afternoon, except Annie (who didn’t count one way or the other), she was much enjoying the spectacle of this nice couple, so unaffectedly lover-like even in her presence. Why, they never left go of one another for a single instant! It was a sight for sore eyes, that it was.

Still, when two persons relentlessly advance upon a narrow doorway, the third, and smallest, member of the trio must give way. “Well, if you’ll put your things outside the door in a few minutes,” she smilingly covered her retreat, “I’ll see they’re nice and dry for you in the morning. And I’m sorry about you not having no luggage with you, but I hope you’ll manage with what I’ve put out on the bed. Good-night, then, mum; good-night, sir.”

“Good-night,” said Mr. Priestley, and feverishly shut the door on the good woman. He did not scruple to turn the key in the lock.

With a sigh of relief he turned back into the room. A voluminous red flannel night-gown, draped chastely over the end of the bed beside a still more voluminous white flannel night-shirt, caught his eye for the first time and he smiled absently. Somebody (he had not the faintest idea who) must at some time have explained away their absence of luggage, and this was the good woman’s reply. He smiled again.

Laura saw the smile and trembled. To her alarmed eye it was the smile of gloating anticipation. Her already enfeebled knees sagged a little further.

“And now,” said Mr. Priestley, “to business!” and he walked briskly towards the bed. The way to the wash-stand, it may be remarked, took him past the end of the bed.

It was the last straw. Unable to bear this final blow, Laura’s long-suffering knees collapsed altogether. She tottered into a chair.

“Please!” said Laura faintly. “Don’t!”

“Why not?” asked the surprised Mr. Priestley, who only wanted to go to the wash-stand.

“Because—because—well, surely you see.”

“Upon my soul, I don’t,” said Mr. Priestley, his eyes fixed longingly on the wash-stand.

Laura coloured deeply. For a young woman who prided herself upon being above all things modern she found herself horribly embarrassed. “Well,” she said desperately, “it—it isn’t playing the game exactly, is it?”

“Why ever not?” asked Mr. Priestley in astonishment.

There was an uneasy pause.

“You’re—you’re stronger than me, of course,” Laura pleaded in her most heartrending tones. Laura had often employed these useful tones with malicious intent; now she was using them in deadly earnest. “You’re—you’re stronger than me, and you know I can’t very well cry for help. You know I’m in your power, if you do use force, but——” Her voice, trembling with real terror, died away. She moistened her dry lips.

Mr. Priestley began to get annoyed. Here he was, anchored to a chair, when he wanted to be at that wash-stand. What on earth had the wretched girl got into her head now? It was the last hope. Did she want to go on wearing these damnable handcuffs?

“I shall certainly use force,” he said crossly, “if you persist in being so unreasonable.”

“I’m not unreasonable!” Laura cried, her fear giving way to indignation before this distorted view.

“Indeed you are,” said Mr. Priestley with legitimate irritation. “Extremely unreasonable. What’s the point? Besides, to put the matter on personal grounds, I’ve surely done enough for you to enable you to do this little thing for me.”

“Oh!” Laura gasped. “Little thing!”

“Besides,” said Mr. Priestley quite angrily, “it may not even be successful.”

“I’ll see that it isn’t!” said Laura grimly, when she had recovered her breath.

“But we must try it, at any rate. Now, please come along, and stop being so absurd.” And grasping her wrist, Mr. Priestley pulled.

Her eyes sparkling stormily, Laura pulled back. Now that it had come to the point, her fears seemed to have left her. She was just furiously angry.

“I—I warn you,” she panted, “if you use force, you—you brute, I’ll fight back. I’ll—I’ll——”

Mr. Priestley stopped pulling and looked at her with something like despair. “But, good Heavens!” he exclaimed. “In the name of goodness, why don’t you want to?”

Laura also stopped pulling in sheer amazement. She could hardly believe her ears. Could this absurd little man really be as incredibly conceited as all that!

“You dare ask me that?” she demanded, her bosom heaving.

Mr. Priestley rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. He had heard a lot about the unreasonableness of women, but he had never heard anything that came within a mile of this. “Surely it’s an obvious question,” he murmured resignedly.

“Well, then, I’ll answer it,” Laura snapped. “Because I hate the sight of you! Now are you satisfied?”

It was Mr. Priestley’s turn to look incredulous. Besides being grossly unfair, considering all that had happened that evening, the answer appeared to be that of a complete imbecile. “That seems a very strange reason for wanting to go on being handcuffed to me,” he articulated.

“Good Heavens, I don’t want to go on being handcuffed to you! There’s nothing I want less in the world, you—you beast! I—oh!” And Laura, the devilish-minded Laura, terror of her brother and all who knew her, buried her face in the crook of her free arm and burst into real tears of mortification and alarm.

Mr. Priestley stared at her aghast. So far as he could see, this extraordinary young woman had suddenly gone off her head. After threatening to fight him if he tried their last resource for getting rid of the handcuffs, she was now apparently weeping at the idea of not doing so. Women, in Mr. Priestley’s mind at that moment, was represented by one large question-mark.

Then suddenly suspicion invaded him. She had pretended to weep once before, and that time he had been taken in, with horrible consequences. Was it not highly probable that she was doing exactly the same thing again, relying on its previous success? What could possibly be her objection to his proposal. Mr. Priestley was unable to understand, but whatever it was it must be swept aside. He was going to be trifled with no longer.

With sudden determination he gathered the drooping body up in his arms and pursued his interrupted journey.

“Oh, no!” moaned a despairing voice from somewhere near his left shoulder. For a young woman who had just expressed her determination to fight to the death, Laura felt remarkably limp. But Laura was limp. For some strange reason the stuffing had been knocked out of her just as suddenly as it had arrived. She could not at that moment have stood up to a blue-bottle; and Mr. Priestley was far more formidable than any blue-bottle. Perhaps the strain of the evening had told on her more than she had realised; she was still cold, she was still clammy, her nerves were in shreds and her food had only given her indigestion. She felt like one of her own wet stockings.

“No!” she moaned again, but without hope.

Mr. Priestley set his teeth. It was a heartrending cry and it did make him feel a brute not to be able to heed it, but really——!

He carried her swiftly to the wash-stand, set her on her feet and, keeping a wary grip on her wrist, reached for the soap.

“Now then!” he said triumphantly, dipping it in the warm water and doing his best to produce a serviceable lather with one hand.

Laura opened her eyes and watched him dazedly. He seemed to be washing one hand in the hot-water can. It was probably very devilish, but its exact purpose escaped her for the moment. He began to soap her own inert hand.

And then, in a series of blinding flashes, Laura’s mind was illuminated.

Her first coherent thought was overwhelming relief. Her next an equally overwhelming, but less reasonable, anger. She stamped her foot. “Is this what you were meaning all the time?” she asked wrathfully. From her tone one might have deduced that she was suffering a fearful disappointment, yet this was not really the case.

“Of course,” said Mr. Priestley in surprise, lathering vigorously.

“Then why on earth didn’t you say so?”

“But I did! Half a dozen times.”

“You didn’t!”

“Didn’t I?” Mr. Priestley’s surprise was genuine enough, but he was much more interested at the moment in his experiment with the soap. “But surely I told you downstairs? What else do you imagine I wanted this bedroom for?”

Laura brushed away the remnants of her tears with an indignant hand. It is seldom given to mortal man, and still less to mortal woman, to feel quite so incredibly foolish as Laura did at that moment. She did not appear to appreciate the privilege conferred upon her.

“I didn’t know what you wanted it for,” she said, with feeble pettishness.

“But didn’t you understand what I was wanting you to come and do?” asked Mr. Priestley, but a little absently, for he really was extraordinarily interested in that soap. One might say that at that moment Mr. Priestley’s heart was in his soap. “What did you think I wanted, then?”

“Something else,” said Laura curtly, looking out of the window and feeling that she would begin to scream very loudly if Mr. Priestley asked her one single more awkward question on this topic.

Fortunately her powers of self-control were not to be put to such a drastic test. “There!” said Mr. Priestley, with mingled satisfaction and anxiety. “I don’t think I can get it any more soapy than that. Now, I’m going to pull. I’m afraid it may hurt you.”

“Hurt away!” said Laura grimly. She felt as if it was quite time that somebody hurt her—as indeed it was.

Mr. Priestley proceeded to gratify her wishes.

“Oh!” squeaked Laura, hastily changing her mind.

“Hold on!” exhorted Mr. Priestley through set teeth. “It’s nearly off!” He resumed his efforts.

There were two more squeaks, and many others nobly repressed, and then two sighs of triumph.

“Well played, by Jove!” said Mr. Priestley, with the wondering admiration of every male for a female who can stand up to pain without flinching.

“Thank God!” said Laura, tears of agony in her eyes. “And thank you, Mr. Mullins, too,” she added. It has already been mentioned that Laura was a just girl. So she was, quite often.

As if with a common understanding they dropped into chairs and relaxed. The next moment, with a more uncommon understanding, they got up simultaneously, drew their respective chairs as close as possible to the fire and relaxed again.

“And now,” said Mr. Priestley, beaming at his companion with benevolent triumph through his glasses, “now what are we going to do?” It was not the least of Mr. Priestley’s achievements that evening that through all its hectic developments he had managed to keep his glasses intact upon the bridge of his nose, even when travelling at forty-five miles an hour in the teeth of a miniature blizzard.

Laura looked at him with something that was not quite respect, and not quite affection, but somehow, contained the ingredients of both. Now that he had succeeded in freeing her of that odious handcuff, and been displayed, incidentally, as the complete little gentleman he was, Laura’s feelings towards him had undergone yet another revulsion. At one bound Mr. Priestley had recovered his proper place m her estimation. Handcuffs are an excellent substitute for a time machine. Laura had only known Mr. Priestley, as time is ordinarily reckoned, for a paltry half-dozen hours; she felt as if she had known him intimately for as many years. And he really was rather a dear!

Undoubtedly, Laura now decided once more, it was a shame to be hoaxing him in this way, when the poor man was taking it all so desperately in earnest. For the hundredth time, but for different reasons on almost each occasion, it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him the truth, nearly the whole truth, and hardly anything but the truth. For the hundredth time she refrained. The continuance of the beam through Mr. Priestley’s glasses decided her this time. It was borne in upon Laura that in a way Mr. Priestley really was enjoying himself, at any rate he was living Life with a capital L; and she felt that, after the good turn he had just done her, he did deserve something better at her hands than such an anti-climax as the truth would be. Besides, Laura reminded herself more sternly, it was probably all exceedingly good for him.

“What shall we do?” she repeated meekly. “Well, that seems to be for you to say, Mr. Mullins. I’m rather in your hands, aren’t I?” And she edged uneasily away from some of her clamminess and suppressed a shiver.

Mr. Priestley noticed both movements. “Very well,” he said promptly. “I want to have a talk with you, of course, but it’s no good running the risk of pneumonia. You must get out of those wet clothes of yours. I’ll go down to the kitchen and do the same.”

Laura approved of this programme, and intimated as much with some warmth. She had never felt much drawn towards red flannel before, but just at that moment red flannel appeared the ideal material for the manufacture of night-gowns. Nice, warm, dry, beautiful red flannel! What could a girl want more?

Besides, she was not sorry to put off her talk with Mr. Priestley till the morning. It would give her time to collect her thoughts, and Laura felt that her thoughts needed a good deal of collecting. It was nice of Mr. Priestley to take it so naturally for granted that he should spend the night in the kitchen. How she had misjudged that blameless man!

“And I wonder if the landlady could run to a dressing-gown?” said the blameless man, gazing thoughtfully at the now empty handcuff dangling from his left wrist. It wore something of a wistful air. So did Mr. Priestley.

“I’ll ask her,” Laura said, jumping to her feet. She went to the door and made the noises of a person requiring the presence of her landlady, while Mr. Priestley hastily tucked his handcuff up his coat-sleeve.

The landlady was enchanted with the idea of producing dressing-gowns. She produced two, one with pride and one with apologies. The first was of blue flannel trimmed with white lace; the other was of fairly pink flannel trimmed with fairly white lace. Her husband, it appeared, dispensed with such formalities as dressing-gowns.

By common female consent the pink dressing-gown was allotted to Mr. Priestley. He clutched it, and snatched up his night-shirt.

“I shall be back, my dear,” he said with dignity, “in about five minutes.” He had not the faintest notion how long a girl takes to get herself out of wet clothes and into a red flannel night-gown, but five minutes seemed a liberal estimate.

“Lor’, sir,” remarked the landlady with frank astonishment, “you’re not going somewhere else to change your clothes, surely? Not after I’ve lighted this fire for you and all?”

“Five minutes!” squeaked Laura at the same time. “But—but you’re not coming back here, are you?”

Mr. Priestley looked from one to the other uneasily. The landlady eyed them both with undisguised surprise. Laura, realising that she had not said quite the right thing so far as the landlady was concerned, began to blush gently, swore silently at herself for doing so, and blushed hotly. The landlady’s kindly eye grew less kindly; it clouded with suspicion. The demeanour of either Laura or Mr. Priestley at that moment would have roused suspicion in a blind woman; their very silence was eloquent.

“I suppose,” said the landlady very slowly, “that you two are married, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Really!” spluttered Mr. Priestley, trying hard to simulate anger. “Really, this is preposterous. I won’t——”

“Seeing,” pursued the landlady in the same tones, her eyes now glued to Laura’s left hand, “seeing, I mean, as the lady isn’t wearing no ring nor anything!”

This was not true. The modern girl does not wear very much, but she does wear something. Laura was wearing several things, each damper than the others.

A hundred despairing schemes flitted through Mr. Priestley’s mind. Now that the handcuffs were off, there was no need for them to pretend they were married. Should he say they were brother and sister? But then that would look suspicious, and real suspicion was the very last thing they wanted to arouse. There would certainly be an account of the crime in the next morning’s papers, and then if their behaviour gave the landlady any inkling that——

Laura’s laugh interrupted his frenzied thoughts. “I see,” said Laura quite naturally, “that we shall have to tell you the truth. No, we’re not——”

What Laura was going to say was never revealed, for with a despairing cry Mr. Priestley flung himself against this piece of suicidal short-sightedness. “No!” said Mr. Priestley loudly. “No, we weren’t married—at this time yesterday. Now we are. You’re right, my darling,” he went on rapidly, with the resource of desperation, “we must tell Mrs. Er-er-h’rrm the truth. We’ve eloped! We—er—we were married at a registry office this afternoon, with—with a key, you know. Not even time to buy the ring. Oh, quite on the spur of the moment, it all was. Ha, Ha! Er—ha, ha!” He laughed without mirth, and waited breathlessly.

“Well, there now!” exclaimed the landlady, her clouds completely dispersed. “Well, isn’t that romantic? With a key, now! I’ve heard tell of that before. Well, well! Eloped, did you say? Now, that is nice. You know, I thought there was something, I did. Fancy that! I always was a one for romance, meself. Of course you go down to the kitchen then, sir. You’ll find it nice and warm in there and when you come up again in ten minutes I’ll have your lady all tucked up in bed and dry and warm as toast for you.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Priestley wanly, taking some pains to avoid his lady’s eye.

“The poor lamb!” continued the landlady fondly, eyeing that now fuming young woman with delighted fondness. “Catching her death of cold, and all on account of shyness, as you might say. I used to feel like that once with my Will, I remember, but bless you, miss—or—mum, I should say—you’ll soon grow out of that.”

“Indeed?” said the lamb coldly. It was a very cold lamb.

“I think I’ll be getting downstairs, d-dearest,” mumbled Mr. Priestley, intercepting a most unlamblike glance. “Er—so long.”

“Wait a minute, sir,” put in the landlady. “I know the very thing—you must have a glass of my elderberry wine first. I’ll get some this very minute. That’ll stop you catching cold, both of you. Bless me, why didn’t I think of that before? Never mind, I’ll have it up in a minute.” She whisked out of the room and shut the door behind her.

The lamb turned irately upon its good shepherd. “Why on earth did you butt in with that absurd story? I’d just thought of a splendid way of breaking the news to her that we aren’t married.”

“Yes, and ruining everything!” retorted Mr. Priestley, stung to annoyance once more. In brief, snappy sentences he showed this obtuse young woman exactly why it was necessary for the landlady to continue in her delusion.

His argument was unanswerable. Without giving her whole case away Laura was unable to pursue that particular line. Woman-like, she instantly directed her irritation into a fresh channel.

“Well, now you can hardly sleep in the kitchen,” she snapped. “Where do you imagine you’re going to sleep, I’d like to know?”

“Where I always did,” Mr. Priestley snapped back. “In here.”

Laura looked at him with wide eyes. “Don’t be absurd, please. That’s out of the question.”

“Anything else is out of the question,” Mr. Priestley said angrily. “It’s you who are being absurd. What you don’t seem to understand is that this is a question of life or death.”

Once again Laura was up against a brick wall. “Well, anyhow, you’re not going to sleep in here. Kindly get that out of your head once and for all. As soon as you’ve gone I shall lock the door.”

“In that case,” said Mr. Priestley grimly, “I shall break it in.”

They looked at each other stormily.

Upon this Pleasing domestic scene the landlady returned.

The constraint in the atmosphere was obvious, but the landlady did not mind that. Quite natural, most excitingly natural, in the circumstances. She dispensed elderberry wine with a generous hand. The occasion called for a generous hand, and the landlady did not fail to respond. Her hand was more than generous; it was prodigal.

“My best respex,” said the landlady happily, raising her tumbler, unlike the other tumblers only a quarter full.

“Uh-huh!” replied Mr. Priestley, with a brave attempt at a smile, and raised his tumbler. Mr. Priestley, as we have already seen, had a Palate. Elderberry-wine does not harmonise with a Palate. Life seemed very bleak at that moment to Mr. Priestley.

He swallowed three large gulps like the gentleman he was, then set his half-empty tumbler down. At precisely the same moment, with an astringent face, Laura was setting her tumbler down. Instantly the landlady pounced on them and re-filled them to the brim.

“That’ll put you as right as rain,” she announced.

Mr. Priestley looked at her with deepened gloom. “It was very nice,” he lied manfully. “Very nice indeed. But I think I won’t have any more, really.”

“And catch your deathacold, sir, instead?” retorted the landlady. “No, you drink that up, and you won’t have to worry about colds.”

“I don’t think I will, really,” Mr. Priestley wriggled. “I’ll be getting along now and——”

“If I were you, mum,” the landlady informed Laura, “I should make him. Mark my words, you’ll have him on your hands with the influenza if you don’t.”

“I think you’re quite right,” Laura agreed, a malicious twinkle in her eye. “Drink it up at once, darling!”

Mr. Priestley gazed at her with mute appeal.

“If I were you, mum,” the landlady added, “I wouldn’t let him go down to change ’is clothes till he had drunk it.”

“Darling,” said Laura, “you don’t go down to change your clothes till you have drunk it.”

There was no real reason why Mr. Priestley should not have said loudly: “Bosh!” and walked out of the room. But he didn’t. He drank up his elderberry wine.

Then he walked sadly to the door. Once he had a Palate….

“Half a minute, sir,” remarked the landlady. “Your good lady hasn’t drunk up hers yet.”

Mr. Priestley stopped short in his tracks.

“If I were you, sir,” observed the landlady with much enjoyment, “I should make her drink it. You’ll have her on your hands for a week with the influenza if you don’t, you mark my words.”

“Darling,” said Mr. Priestley in italics, advancing towards his adopted wife, “drink up your wine!”

“I don’t think I will, really,” Laura murmured, backing uneasily, “I—I’ve had enough.”

“I’m not going out of this room till you do,” said Mr. Priestley with triumph.

The battle of wills lasted only two minutes, but two minutes can seem a very long time. At the end of it, with a slightly dazed look in her eyes, Laura drank up her elderberry wine. Laura had not had very much practice in doing what she was told, and it did not come easily to her.

Then Mr. Priestley went downstairs.

The landlady watched him go, carrying as he did with him three-quarters of a pint of her elderberry wine, with a triumphant eye. She felt that she had done her duty, and not only as an anti-influenza specialist; she felt that this couple would be grateful to her the next morning, and not only because their noses would not be streaming. The landlady had brought seven children into the world in her time, and she was an expert in many things beside influenza.

In the traditional way she proceeded to put the bride to bed.

Going downstairs with that uneasy young woman’s wet clothes, she found the groom hovering nervously. With words of homely encouragement she sent him flying upstairs with cheeks as red as his lady’s night-gown.

Mr. Priestley was proving himself to be a man of singular resolution. There were few things in this world that he wanted to do less than turn the key on the inside of that bedroom door; yet he knew the key must be turned. He turned it.

From the centre of the pillow in the large bed a small face, framed in sheet, regarded him with ill-concealed alarm. Even the sight of Mr. Priestley swathed in his pink flannel and lace appeared to bring it no joy. Two round eyes followed his every movement, and as he advanced towards the bed the sheet that framed the face took on a tense appearance beside either cheek, as if two small hands were gripping it convulsively. The face did not speak, for the simple reason that its owner was totally incapable of uttering a word. It is very difficult to inaugurate a chatty conversation when your throat has gone quite dry and your tongue has apparently affixed itself irrevocably to the roof of your mouth.

Carrying his pink flannel with the dignity of a Roman in his toga, Mr. Priestley halted beside the bed and stared down into the silent face with a look that was almost grim. “And now, young woman,” he said, in a voice which matched his look only too well, “I want an explanation, if you please.”

Reader, have you ever drunk home-made elderberry wine? Not a pale imitation, I mean, but the real, genuine, honest article? Have you gone still further and imbibed a full three-quarters of a pint of it? For, if you have, there is no need for me to explain. However, in case your life has been empty and vain, I will point out that home-made elderberry wine (the real, honest stuff) does practically nothing for about a quarter of an hour. During that period it just sits and ruminates. Then it makes up for lost time.

Suddenly the sheet on either side of Laura’s face relaxed. She smiled. “Yes, I expect you do,” she agreed.

Mr. Priestley smiled too. “I certainly do.”

Laura laughed. “I’ve been wondering when you were going to ask for one.”

Mr. Priestley laughed too. In the space of a few seconds the whole thing seemed to have taken on a completely different aspect. It was not a tragedy at all; it was—yes, utterly incredible but perfectly true—really quite funny!

Laura seemed to find it funny too. Her laugh degenerated into a giggle.

Mr. Priestley sat down on the bed. “Of course, you know I’m not that man Mullins,” he stated rather than asked. How very obtuse of him never to have realised that before! Of course she knew it. “When did you begin to find out?”

“I knew all the time,” giggled Laura. “Oh, dear, this is ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“Quite absurd,” grinned Mr. Priestley. “I’m afraid, by the way, that I must have been rather a handicap to you this evening.”

“Not at all,” said Laura politely.

“You see, I’ve never associated with professional criminals before. My name is——” A glimmer of sense returned to Mr. Priestley, and he withheld that confidence.

Laura was giggling again. “You know, I’m not really a professional criminal,” she volunteered. “I’m quite honest. Is that a dreadful disappointment?”

Mr. Priestley beamed. “No, are you really? That is a great relief, a very great relief. That’s really a load off my mind. But in that case—well, would you mind telling me the real truth about this evening?”

But Laura, though disposed to giggle, had not quite lost her head in her newly awakened sense of humour. She hastily searched her mind for a tale that should relieve Mr. Priestley’s mind as much as possible, without betraying her trust.

“Well,” she said slowly, “what I told you first of all was near enough. I knew you weren’t Mullins, of course, but I was desperately anxious for some one to help me, so I just pretended to think you were. Besides,” she added severely, “I thought it would serve you right.”

“I deserved it, I know,” agreed Mr. Priestley, but with no signs of contrition.

“That man has got some compromising letters of mine. He may have some miniatures too; I don’t know anything about that. But you needn’t let your conscience worry you about having shot him. He was a thorough blackguard, and you never did a better thing in your life.”

“That’s a relief too,” murmured Mr. Priestley thoughtfully. “So far we seem to have been too busy for my conscience to have recovered from its shock, but doubtless I should have had a very bad time to-night if you hadn’t told me that. You’re—you’re sure he deserved it? Blackmailer, eh? If he was a blackmailer I’m not only not sorry,” said Mr. Priestley defiantly, “I’m glad. I’ve always considered shooting the only cure for blackmailers.”

“He was, yes. Oh, he deserved it all right; please don’t worry about that. By the way,” Laura added curiously, “what were you going to do about it? Had you formed any sort of plan?”

“Well,” Mr. Priestley, replied with diffidence, “I’d rather thought (after you were safe, of course) of going to the police and explaining the whole thing. It wasn’t murder, you see; only manslaughter. As it is, I’m not at all sure that I shall do anything.”

“Don’t!” Laura said earnestly. “You can’t do any good, and you may do a lot of harm. Besides,” she went on, looking down her pretty nose, “I don’t really want to be brought into it, you know, as I certainly should be if you went to the police.”

Mr. Priestley started slightly. “You! By Gad, yes; I was forgetting about that. Of course you mustn’t be brought into it. Your husband would never forgive you. And for that matter——” He coloured modestly.

“Yes?” Laura encouraged.

“Only that the circumstances are a little altered. I was looking on you as a young woman without—well, without a reputation to lose; in which case it wouldn’t matter a rap that you should sleep in this bed and I on the sofa over there in the same room. As it is, of course——!”

Laura raised herself discreetly on an elbow and thumped a hard pillow into a semblance of softness. “Yes?” she said almost nonchalantly.

“Well, I mean,” Mr. Priestley amplified, a little uncomfortably, “we don’t want to add divorce to our other crimes, do we?”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” Laura said brightly. “I’m not really married. I only said that because I thought it would make you readier to help me. Look, there’s no mark even of a wedding-ring.”

She extended her left hand and Mr. Priestley, in order to examine it the better, held its slim fingers in his. When he put it down on the bed again he continued to hold its slim fingers. Mr. Priestley was a very absent-minded man.

But he was not a man of the world. A man of the world would instantly have said all the pretty things which this new piece of information should require. Mr. Priestley only said, rather blankly; “But don’t you see, that’s almost worse. You’d be hopelessly compromised. Of course I shall spend the night in the kitchen.” He looked a little wistfully at the sofa near the fire. It was not the most comfortable sofa ever made, but compared with a Windsor chair in the kitchen it was Heaven.

“On a hard chair, in a draught?” Laura smiled lazily. Her cheeks were a little flushed, for the honest elderberry wine was hard at work now making the place hot for influenza germs, and her whole body was permeated with a pleasant warmth. She tried to put herself in Mr. Priestley’s place and face a hard chair in a draughty kitchen. “It seems to me I’m compromised quite deeply as it is. After all we’re supposed to be married, you know. By the way, is that the door-key?” She disengaged her fingers from Mr. Priestley’s and extended them invitingly.

Mr. Priestley put the key into them.

Laura weighed it pensively in her hand. “You’re very conventional, aren’t you?” she asked.

Mr. Priestley, who was under the impression that he had just killed one of his fellow-men and was not in the least sorry for it, nodded. “In some circumstances,” he said primly, “one has to be.”

“Well,” said Laura, as if arriving at a decision, “I’m not. Never! If the people are all right, the circumstances can take care of themselves; that’s my creed.” With a sudden movement she thrust the key far down inside the bed and showed her empty hand. “Now, go and make yourself as comfy as you can on that sofa with both dressing-gowns and this eiderdown; and if you want to say anything to me, say: ‘It’s your own silly fault, my dear girl!’ Because it is, you know.”

Mr. Priestley jumped to his feet and stood for a moment, looking down at the flushed and ever so faintly mocking face. “No,” he said slowly, “I won’t say that. I’ll say: ‘You’re a very dear, sweet girl. But please give me that key.’”

Laura shook her head violently. “No! I’ve made up my mind, and I’m not going to alter it. Now, please run along to that sofa, because I want to go to sleep.”

Mr. Priestley saw she meant it, and his colour deepened. He turned towards the sofa without a word.

But the elderberry wine, in the intervals of combating influenza germs, had not performed its last miracle yet. With a swift movement Mr. Priestley turned about, darted back to the bed and kissed the astonished maiden in it unskilfully but heartily on her lips. Then he retired to his sofa.

Ten minutes later two rhythmical breathings filled the room, one only just audible, the other distinctly so. The elderberry wine had done its last job.

Chapter IX.
George Says Nothing, Much

Cynthia Nesbitt put the Sunday Courier down on the table, shrugged her shoulders despairingly and turned to her husband. “Guy, darling,” she said, “you don’t mind my telling you that you’re utterly and completely mad, do you?”

“Not in the least, dear,” Guy smiled. “I take it as a compliment. All really nice people are a little mad, you know.”

“Yes, but there are limits even to the nicest people’s madness. Guy, what is going to happen?”

“That,” said her husband, “is just what I’m so interested to know.” He picked up the paper and glanced over the staring headlines with affectionate proprietorship. “They’ve really done us quite proud, haven’t they! By the way, can I have another cup of coffee, please?”

“I’m not surprised you need it,” said Cynthia, taking his cup.

Guy continued to run gratified eyes over The Courier’s hysterics. The Courier was in the habit of letting itself go when it felt that it had got hold of something really good; this time it had not so much let itself go as gone behind itself and pushed. Headlines half an inch high broke the news to an astonished world; the two columns were liberally interspersed with sentences, and sometimes whole paragraphs, in heavy leaded type; such words as “incredible,” “amazing,” “astounding,” and “epoch-making in the annals of crime,” appeared in prodigal profusion.

Under Doyle’s own name one column was filled with his account of the affair; the other was devoted to his interviews with “The Constable in the Cupboard,” as The Courier facetiously termed that functionary, and Reginald Foster, Esquire, “who actually intercepted one member of the nefarious gang and obtained from her facts of paramount importance.” The Crown Prince motif was played up to its utmost capacity, and The Man with the Broken Nose was accorded the honour of leaded type whenever his pseudonym occurred, which was very often. In a screaming leader The Courier laid it down that this lamentable affair was a Disgrace to Civilisation and attributed it directly to the pusillanimity of our present (so-called) Government, referred in scathing terms to the Constable in the Cupboard as an example of the ineptitude of our rural police force, and called upon its readers to avenge this slight to England’s honour by themselves prosecuting the search for the notorious Man with the Broken Nose.

The Courier then sat back on its haunches and sent for its circulation manager.

Let it not be thought that The Courier had been too easily gulled. The night editor, who was a naturally sceptical man, had caused a telephone call to be put through to the Abingchester police station before Mr. Doyle had been talking to him for three minutes. Subsequent calls to the houses of Messrs. Reginald Foster and Guy Nesbitt at Duffley confirmed the incredible. Doubting not that it was on firm ground The Courier acceded (more or less) to Mr. Doyle’s terms, and so made certain of being the only one in the field the next morning with this scoop of a lifetime; then it scrapped its old centre-page at enormous cost, got behind itself and pushed.

The result was most gratifying to all concerned.

“Oh, put the horrible thing away!” Cynthia cried suddenly, snatching the paper from Guy and throwing it violently on the floor. “I can’t bear to look at it any longer.”

“Dear wife,” Guy murmured, “you’re taking this thing in the wrong spirit.”

“I don’t want to take it in any spirit at all,” retorted his dear wife. “What I was thinking of ever to let you embark on it, I can’t imagine. I must have been out of my senses.”

“You were certainly an accessory before the fact, dear. But for that matter, we were all out of our senses. And a very good thing too. The chief merit of senses is that one is able occasionally to get out of them. And then look how interesting life becomes.”

“Well, I hope you’ll find life in prison interesting. I don’t think I shall. Because that’s where we shall certainly end up, when the real story comes out.”

“I’ve never been to prison,” Guy meditated. “It’s an omission that ought to be remedied. Everybody should go to prison at least once. Yes, I think prison would be intensely interesting. Except for the clothes, of course. But even in oakum and broad arrows, or whatever it is, I’m sure you’ll look perfectly charming, darling.”

“Guy,” said his wife with feeling, “there are times when I come very near to wishing I hadn’t married you.”

“‘Don’t send my wife ter prisin,’” chanted Guy, in a very cracked voice, grinning madly. “‘Hit’s the fust crime in ’er life,’ ‘Six munfs!’ replied is wusship. ‘Ho, Gawd ’elp my herrin’ wife!’”

“Anybody in?” called a voice outside the window, fortunately preventing the erring wife’s repartee.

“Come in, Doyle,” Guy responded, jumping up. “Through the window.”

Mr. Doyle’s face appeared at the open window and preceded its owner into the room. “I’ve got George outside,” he observed, dropping to his feet on the floor, “but whether he can follow me is open to question. It’s a nice problem. Let’s see. Head first, George, and land on the hands. Excellent! Well, we’ve come to see whether you people are going to church.”

“Church!” said Cynthia.

“Good-morning, Cynthia,” said Mr. Doyle politely. “Or do I call you Mrs. Nesbitt now it’s the morning after? Anyhow, I hope you slept well.”

“Where’s Dora?” Cynthia asked, disregarding this facetiousness.

“Immured in the linen cupboard, I think, or concealed in the cistern. Anyhow, safely out of sight. I suppose you know she’s wanted by the police?”

“Only Dora?” replied Cynthia pithily.

“So far, yes. Another thing we wanted to know was whether Laura turned up here in the small hours?”

“No,” said Guy. “Didn’t she get home, George?”

“No. Mind this pipe, by the way, Cynthia?”

“Not a bit; we’ve finished breakfast: You don’t seem very worried about Laura, George.”

“I’m not,” replied that young woman’s brother. “If anybody’s capable of taking care of herself, Laura is. At the present moment she’s probably taking care of that chap Priestley as well if I know her.” A certain light in George’s eye indicated a fellow-feeling for Mr. Priestley.

“But supposing they haven’t been able to get that handcuff off?”

“Laura,” said George with conviction, “could wriggle out of anything.” He picked up the fallen Sunday Courier and begun to scrutinise it. He had seen it already, but it is nice to look at one’s name in print for the first time.

Guy and Doyle began to exchange congratulations over George’s shoulders, pointing to the passages which particularly pleased them. George, having examined the paragraph in which his name occurred to make sure that they had not let it out of this copy, surrendered the paper and grinned cheerfully at Cynthia.

Cynthia saw the grin and it jarred upon her. Cynthia was not feeling at all like grinning that morning.

“What do you think of it all, George?” she asked.

“Me?” said George in some surprise; George was not used to having his opinion sought. “Oh, I think it’s rather a rag.”

In spite of herself Cynthia laughed. “You hopeless babies!” she said, and went out of the room.

Two minutes later she was back again. “It may interest you to know,” she remarked coldly from the doorway, “that half the population of Duffley seems to be in the road outside this house. Will one of you go and send them away, please?” She withdrew again.

“The crowd collects,” murmured Guy with pleasure. “That’s quite in order. Highly professional conduct on the part of the crowd.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Doyle. “I’d forgotten to mention that. I was gloating over them at breakfast. It just wanted a crowd to top things off. George, go and send them away.”

“Oh, come,” protested George. “I like that.”

“I thought you would. You’re the sort of person who can get a lot of fun out of a crowd, George, providing, of course, that they’re sufficiently rough. I hope you won’t be disappointed. Run along. You heard what Cynthia said.”

“But why can’t one of you two go?”

“Because we’re the brains of the conspiracy, and the brains never undertakes manual work like crowd-hustling. Besides, you’re bigger than us. Out with you, George.”

George went out.

The crowd was a very peaceful one. It was just there to look, and it was doing its job with silent relish. Hitherto it had been looking at the house. Now it looked at George. So far as one could gather from the crowd’s expression there was not very much to choose between the house and George, but George was more of a novelty.

George looked at the crowd. The crowd looked at George.

“Go away,” said George to the crowd.

Somebody in the rear inadvertently blinked. Otherwise no movement was perceptible. The inhabitants of Duffley are not a sprightly set of people.

“Did you hear me?” said George to the crowd. “Go away!”

The crowd went on looking at George.

“Go AWAY!” said George to the crowd.

A large person in the front rank grinned.

George, realising that the time had come for action, took the large person by the shoulder and walked him down the road. The large person allowed George to do so with the greatest amiability. Then George went back for his companion, and the large person strolled back, still with the greatest amiability, to his place. Another large person in the second rank guffawed.

At this point George gave the crowd up as hopeless and walked with dignity into the house again. The crowd watched his retreating back with stolid interest. It was not an exacting crowd, and George’s back would furnish it with food for reflection for at least half an hour. In the meantime Guy and Mr. Doyle had been comparing notes.

“Why didn’t you come back last night?” Guy was asking as George entered the room with a slightly baffled air. Fortunately the others were far too interested in the matter in hand to pay the slightest attention to him.

“My dear chap, I couldn’t. We didn’t get rid of that Inspector till nearly three o’clock, and all the time I was terrified that he’d somehow find out that Dora was in the house. I was only just able to nip into the library in front of him and warn George not to mention her. It was jolly lucky we’d made her go to bed, according to plan. I whispered to her through the key-hole to lie low, while George was getting more whisky out for the Inspector in the library. Anyhow, there’s one thing. The Inspector loves me like a brother. It was I who put the idea of whisky into George’s head, wasn’t it, George?”

“You were chatting a good deal about it,” George admitted.

Guy began to steal jam with silent gusto. “You know,” he said after a minute or two, “I feel rather guilty about that dear old Inspector. He’s almost too easy.”

“Yes. I never imagined the official police could be hoodwinked quite so simply. But don’t you worry about him. He’s having the time of his life. He wouldn’t have missed this for worlds. For two solid hours by the clock last night he was telling us about his other murder case. I suggested half a dozen times as tactfully as possible that he’d better go out and do a bit of detecting, but nothing happened.”

“But I say, Pat, he can’t be a complete old ass,” George pointed out. “He solved that murder all right apparently, and it seems to have been a bit of a mystery.”

“That’s as may be,” said Mr. Doyle, who had not listened for two hours without gaining some suspicion of the truth. “By the way, I hope we hear from Laura to-day; and I hope also that she’s dutifully watching the gentleman’s reactions. We mustn’t lose sight of our primary experiment in all this excitement about the second one. Don’t you think——”

“Hush!” said Guy, holding up a hand.

They listened. Somewhere in the near distance a rumbling voice was inquiring for Mr. Nesbitt.

“The Inspector,” Doyle murmured. “Let’s take him out to the scene of the body’s embarkment and watch his reactions.”

Inspector Cottingham greeted them genially. “Morning, gents,” he said with an air of importance. “Morning, Mr. Doyle, sir. I’ve had a look at the Sunday Courier.”

“Oh, yes. Satisfied, Inspector?”

“They’ve done it pretty well,” the Inspector admitted. “Pretty well, yes. Barring all that clap-trap about the police, of course.”

“Oh, you mustn’t take any notice of that. It’s the usual thing, you know. They must put it down to somebody’s fault. Still, on the whole it wasn’t so bad, eh? And you saw I brought your name well to the front.”

“That’s right, sir,” agreed the Inspector, endeavouring to conceal his gratification. “That’s right. Well, it won’t be long before you’ll have something more to tell ’em, I’m thinking. I took the liberty, Mr. Nesbitt, sir, of poking round a bit this morning before you were up.”

“Of course, Inspector,” said Guy. “It’s understood that the place is open to you whenever you like. I suppose you didn’t find anything much?”

The Inspector swelled gently. “Didn’t I, then, sir? Didn’t I? Oh, yes, I did. You come along with me, gents, and I’ll show you something as’ll surprise you. Though mind you,” he added with a belated return to officialdom, “all this is ’ighly confidential. You mustn’t,” he explained kindly, “go telling people about it, if you please.”

“Oh, quite so, quite so,” murmured Guy solemnly.

They processed out of the house and the Inspector led the way to the bottom of the garden, his back rhetorical.

“This ’ere,” said the Inspector portentously, halting at a patch of much trampled ground on the bank of the river, “is where they got out of a boat and came ashore, and where they took the body on board subsequent to the murder.”

“By Jove, is it really?” said Doyle.

“How on earth do you know that, Inspector?” said Guy.

George said nothing.

Guy had said the right thing. The Inspector beamed upon him.

“See all them footprints on the ground, sir?” he replied with legitimate pride. “That’s how I know. Now, you never made them footprints, did you, sir?”

“Certainly not,” Guy said without truth.

“Of course you didn’t. Nor did any of your friends. They made ’em.”

“Well I never!” said Doyle.

“That’s a good piece of deduction,” said Guy.

George said nothing.

Doyle scrutinised the prints with elaborate care. “But look here, Inspector,” he remarked, “these seem to be all male prints. What about the girl? Didn’t she come this way?”

This time Doyle had said the right thing. The Inspector beamed upon him.

“The girl, sir, as we know from Mr. Foster’s evidence, stayed behind. The others, becoming impatient, moved the boat a little farther along and she went aboard there, after they’d gone on shore again to see what was happening to her.”

“Good gracious!” said Doyle.

“Inspector, this is magical! How on earth do you know that?” said Guy.

George said nothing.

Almost bursting with triumph, the Inspector led them along the bank. This was where the Nesbitts usually landed, and the soft turf was marked with many footprints, among which Cynthia’s high heels were conspicuous. Quite speechless with admiration of his own perspicacity, the Inspector pointed at them in silence.

Doyle made appropriate comments. So did Guy. George said nothing.

The Inspector took them back to the house to show them the track made by the George-laden rug. He took them to the piece of lawn where Dora had interviewed Mr. Foster and showed them her heel-marks. He took them back to the bank again to show them some blood he had found on a dandelion.

Doyle was loud in his praises. So was Guy. George said nothing. George was not one of your chatty people.

The Inspector’s face became positively alarming in its mysteriousness. He gathered the three close around them, as if suspecting eavesdroppers behind every plantain, and spoke in a voice so low and charged with such importance that the mere words could hardly be distinguished. “And, gents,” whispered the Inspector reverently, “I’ve got a Clue!”

“Not a clue?” cried Doyle.

“A clue, Inspector?” cried Guy.

George cried nothing. But then, George very seldom cried.

“A clue, gents,” affirmed the Inspector. With a flourish he drew from his pocket a muddy and bloody handkerchief. “This ’ere was dropped on the bank by one of the assassins,” he repeated proudly. “Assassin” is a much better word than mere “murderer.”

Once more suitable comments arose.

“Is it marked in any way?” asked Guy, quite gravely. Guy had a wonderful control over his facial muscles.

“It is, sir,” intoned the Inspector. “It’s marked with the initials ‘R. F.’ in black marking ink.”

“On a white ground,” added Doyle.

“That’s great, Inspector,” said Guy. “That ought to be a most valuable clue.”

They went on to discuss the valuable clue at some length. Beyond it, the Inspector had no further news. In reply to eager questions he was forced to admit that he had not yet established the identity of the murdered Crown Prince, nor had he any information regarding the Man with the Broken Nose. He was, however, quite confident that the answers to both these riddles would be in his hands before nightfall. “Because some one’s bound to know, you see, gents,” said the Inspector in confidence, “and they’ll send the information along to the officer in charge of the case, you mark my words.”

His audience marked them, happily.

Finally, with regretful murmurs about duty and reports, the Inspector tore himself away.

“We’re all right, we’re all right,” Doyle crooned, as the trio strolled back to the house. “He feeds out of our hands. We’re all right.”

“But what about Scotland Yard?” demanded George, breaking half an hour’s rigid silence. “You won’t be able to take him in so easily.”

Doyle looked at him rather pityingly. “My dear George, there won’t be any Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard has nothing to do with crimes outside the metropolitan area. They only come if they’re sent for and the local police confess themselves baffled. Can you see our Inspector confessing himself baffled?”

“Humph!” said George, not altogether convinced.

“Have you thought, Nesbitt,” Doyle continued to his host, “in regard to that matter of feeding out of our hands, of feeding him with clues?”

“I have, Doyle,” said Guy, and chuckled.

“So have I,” grinned Mr. Doyle. “Touching perhaps a certain handkerchief?”

“You read my thoughts.”

“And you mine. Come, it’s a beautiful morning; let us manufacture a few clues. I’m full of bright ideas this morning. I feel like a veritable clue-factory.”

“Wait a minute, though. This needs rather careful handling. We must find out what his movements were last night first, and arrange our results accordingly.”

“Nesbitt,” said Mr. Doyle admiringly, “you think of everything. Let us visit the gentleman. I have an idea that he won’t have gone to church this morning. I also have an idea that he’ll have no objection to talking to us—none at all.”

“That,” agreed Guy feelingly, “is very probable.”

George looked from one to the other in bewilderment. “What are you chaps talking about?” he demanded.

They gazed at him pityingly.

“I don’t think,” said Mr. Doyle, “that we’ll take George in with us. And we can’t very well tie him up outside. Do you mind if we leave him here?”

“Not at all. He can talk to my wife. I think she rather needs somebody to talk to.”

“George, you hear? You’re to stay here and talk to Mrs. Nesbitt. She needs somebody to talk to, but you’re the only one available. Good-bye.”

They went.

George watched them go. Then he went indoors obediently to talk to Cynthia. People were always doing that sort of thing to George.

Cynthia was very ready for George to talk to her. She came downstairs, fresh from helping the good woman who had come in for the day to oblige in the absence according to orders of the maids, and engaged George in conversation at once. Twenty minutes later George had said, “Yes,” fourteen times, “No,” eleven, “Oh, come,” seven, and “Really, I don’t think it’s as bad as that, Cynthia,” on an ascending scale, four. Otherwise George had contributed nothing of value to the conversation.

“But what’s going to happen?” Cynthia demanded, not for the first time. “What’s going to be the end of it?”

“I don’t know,” said George, breaking fresh ground.

“How are they going to get out of it, when the time comes?” Cynthia pursued.

George consulted his pipe. It gave him no help. “I expect they’ll think of something,” he said feebly. “Trust old Guy, eh?”

It appeared that this was not a well-chosen observation. “Trust old Guy?” repeated Cynthia with energy. “Yes, I’ll trust old Guy to get himself, and all the rest of us as well, into the most appalling mess. They’ll think of something, will they? Heaven forbid! They’ve thought of quite enough already. Anything else will be just about the last straw. What you were doing to encourage them, George, I can’t think. You ought to have had more sense. Why didn’t you stop them?”

George might so easily have retorted: “Why didn’t you?” But George was a perfect little gentleman. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said vaguely, apparently accepting the implication that he could have stopped them had he wished, an implication that was in no way at all based on fact. “Rather—er—rather a rag, you know.”

“A fine rag!” said Cynthia with much scorn. “Prison will be a rag, too, as Guy seems to think, won’t it? And there’s that poor Mr. Priestley, or whatever his name is, trembling in his shoes somewhere at this very minute under the impression that he’s committed a murder. I suppose that’s a fine rag, too?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” George murmured uneasily. “Pat Doyle said he wanted waking up.”

“And will it be a fine rag if he commits suicide, too?” inquired Cynthia with awful sarcasm.

“Oh, come!” implored George, much startled. “I say, you don’t think he’d be likely to do that, Cynthia?”

“I can imagine nothing more probable,” Cynthia retorted, and for the moment really believed she was speaking the truth. “What would you do if you thought you’d murdered somebody? The horror, the shame, the awful remorse…. Naturally suicide would be the first thing to occur to you. It all depends on Mr. Priestley’s strength of will whether he gives way to it or not. Of course I knew that was the danger all along.”

Once again George proved his perfect gentility. Not for once did he dream of saying: “In that case, my dear Cynthia, why in the name of all that’s holy didn’t you say so before it was too late?” He just remarked, in very blank tones, “Good Lord!” It was easy to see that George had not known that that was the danger all along.

“Somebody ought to tell him,” Cynthia affirmed. “This thing’s gone quite far enough. You must tell him, George.”

“But I don’t know where he is.”

“Pat knows his address. Find it out. And, as for the police side of it, if those two precious idiots don’t have that cleared up within twenty-four hours, I’m going to take a hand in it myself. Three can play at that game as well as two, and better. And in any case, somebody’s got to step in and sweep up the mess.” Cynthia paused, rather charmingly flushed with the heat of her indignation, and stared ominously at George, causing that perfect gentleman to wriggle his toes in his Oxford brogues. “And if you repeat a single word of what I’ve been telling you to either of those two, George,” she added quite fiercely, “I’ll never speak to you again.”

George quailed before this horrible threat; but old loyalties are stronger than new ones, even where such a nice person as Cynthia was concerned. He grabbed his courage in both hands.

“Yes, that’s all right,” he said very quickly. “I’ll be mum. But look here, Cynthia, about old Priestley, you know. I—I’m afraid I couldn’t tell him the truth without Guy’s permission. It’s—well, this is Guy’s pigeon, you know. Can’t very well go behind his back.” He grew very red and floundery. “Not—er—not playing the game exactly, eh?”

A woman is always astounded when she finds another man taking her own husband seriously. “But, George,” Cynthia said in genuine surprise, “that’s really rather a distorted view, isn’t it? You surely don’t mean that you’d condemn this Mr. Priestley to unbelievable misery rather than go behind a silly whim of Guy’s? You’re not one of these ridiculous criminologists, or whatever they call themselves; you ought to be able to take a sane view. The whole thing’s exceedingly cruel, and—and very horrible.”

George squirmed, but stuck to his guns. “Couldn’t go behind old Guy’s back,” he mumbled. “Rotten trick.”

“Then you’re as silly as he is!” Cynthia flared at him suddenly. “Very well, leave poor Mr. Priestley to his fate. And if he commits suicide, as he’s almost certain to do, console yourself with the reflection that you never went behind Guy’s back. Excellent, George!” Cynthia very seldom flared, very, very seldom; but she was only human, and she really was worried. Besides, she had had very little sleep and her nerves were inclined to jangle. It was George’s misfortune to provide a safety-valve for some of the steam they had been generating.

An awkward silence ensued. Then the front door-bell rang.

“Don’t you bother,” said George, humbly anxious to make some sort of amends for his disgusting loyalty to Cynthia’s husband. “I’ll go. I’ll say you’re out, shall I?”

“Oh, say anything you like,” snapped Cynthia, “only don’t say anything behind Guy’s back.” Cynthia was being unfair, and she knew it. Moreover, she didn’t care. Moreover, still, she was determined to go on being as unfair as she possibly could. Women, the very nicest of them, are sometimes taken like that.

George went, hastily.

On the doorstep stood the Inspector, but not alone. Accompanying him was a dapper man in a well-cut lounge suit with a gardenia in his button-hole.

The crowd watched them owlishly.

The Inspector spoke, in a voice pregnant with fate. “This is Mr. Howard, sir,” he said.

“Morning,” said the dapper man unsmilingly. “I’m Colonel Ratcliffe, the Chief Constable. I want to see Mr. Nesbitt.”

Chapter X.
Laura Surpasses Herself

At much the same time as Guy Nesbitt was asking his wife for a second cup of coffee, Mr. Priestley was requesting of his pseudo-wife a similar favour. They were breakfasting in the combined coffee-room, restaurant and private sitting-room of the little inn, and they knew now a good many things which they had not known before. They knew, for instance, that the inn was the Black Swan, that it was in the minute village of Sandersworth and that Sandersworth was, roughly, thirty-five miles from Duffley and nearly a hundred from London. They also knew that they thoroughly approved of the minute village of Sandersworth.

It is impossible for two people of opposite sexes to sleep in the same room, however remotely, without experiencing afterwards a rather exciting, if quite innocent feeling of intimacy. It was the first time Mr. Priestley had breakfasted alone with a charmingly pretty girl; it was the first time Laura had breakfasted alone with a strange man of less than twenty-four hours’ acquaintance; yet, somehow, the situation seemed perfectly natural to both of them. Considering what had gone before, this is not surprising. For besides the sleeping in the same room, there had been the getting up in the same room, and that had been even more amusing.

There had been the discussion, for example, interspersed with stifled giggles, which had resulted in Mr. Priestley going on to lurk in some place unspecified (the little inn boasted no bathroom) where he might remained concealed from the landlady and Annie (who, however, did not count one way or the other) while Laura washed. Then there had been the deliciously exciting moment when Mr. Priestley, in order to save time and ensure a simultaneous appearance at the breakfast-table, had been re-admitted to shave with a borrowed razor while Laura, blushing faintly in the blue flannel dressing-gown, but far more amused than embarrassed, let him in and then attended to her shingled hair and completed her toilet behind an improvised screen of eiderdown and blanket in a corner of the room. Then she, fully dressed, had gone off to lurk while Mr. Priestley made himself ready to face the world.

No more improper, the whole thing, in its essentials than a bathe, let us say, from the same large cave on a rocky beach, which in the eyes of the world is nothing; but far, far more thrilling, for the very reason of those same censorious eyes. For whereas in the estimation of the two principals the whole affair was as innocent as innocence can well be and they had gained rather than lost in self-respect, in the eyes of the world they had lost everything. The world will never consent to believe the best when it has a chance of believing the worst.

It had been, therefore, a Very Great Adventure.

And the consequence was that, when at last they faced each other across the breakfast-table, blushing modestly beneath the landlady’s unconcealed interest, Mr. Priestley had an uncanny feeling that he really was married to this delightful young woman and that it was all exceedingly pleasant. It quite needed the presence of that handcuff (which, by an ingenious device attached to his braces, he had succeeded in tethering out of sight up his sleeve) to remind him that he was, in fact, not a happy honeymooner without a care in the world, but a fugitive from justice, a clapper of constables into cupboards, a man-slaughterer, and stuffed so full of cares that it was a wonder his second cup of coffee could effect an entrance.

Nevertheless, one anxiety persisted in Mr. Priestley’s mind, in spite of his pleasurable excitement, and the bright chatter of his adopted young wife; he was on tenterhooks to see a newspaper. Sandersworth, it appeared, was not favoured in the matter of newspapers on Sundays. They had, the landlady explained at some length, to be brought specially over from Manstead, and, of course, that took time. Not before ten they couldn’t be expected, and sometimes it was nearer half-past. She took in The News of the World, she did, and Mr. Bracey (such was the pseudonym which Mr. Priestley had cunningly adopted with his married state) should see it as soon as it came, before she ever so much as opened it herself. Mr. Bracey, né Priestley, asked her to buy a sample of each paper available, and concealed his impatience as best he could.

“And now,” said Laura, when she had fulfilled her wifely duty of pouring out that second cup of coffee, “now, what’s the programme? What are we going to do to-day?”

“Well,” said Mr. Priestley tentatively, “we can’t stay here, of course.”

“Of course not,” Laura agreed, not without firmness.

Mr. Priestley looked slightly disappointed, and then slightly ashamed of such unreasonable optimism. “What do you suggest, then?”

“Me? Nothing. I’m leaving all that entirely to you. I’m completely in your hands.” She assumed her famous pathetic air, but in a modified degree. Mr. Priestley, she felt, not without reason, would not be quite so easily taken in by such means in the future as he had been in the past. To tell the truth, Laura was by this time not at all sure of her ground where Mr. Priestley was concerned. At times he was unexpectedly meek and amenable, at others still more unexpectedly the reverse. Ah, well, it all went to make life more interesting.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked in humble tones.

Thus jerked up on to his pedestal of male superiority, Mr. Priestley regarded his companion attentively. What he would really like to do with her, he reflected wickedly, would be to kiss her—like last night, but with the benefit of that experience behind him; every little helps, so far as experience in kissing is concerned. For the first time in his life Mr. Priestley felt a strong desire to try his hand at this interesting art—or should one say his lips?

He pulled himself together. That would never do. Certainly not. Last night had been a privileged occasion. Even a real husband hardly ever kisses his real wife at the breakfast-table; he complains about the bacon instead.

“Well,” he said, dismissing these irrelevant reflections, “what about getting you back to your people, and—and all that?”

Laura looked more pathetic than ever, though still careful not to overdo it. “I haven’t any people,” she said with quiet courage. “I’m—I’m alone in the world.”

“God bless my soul!” observed Mr. Priestley, much touched.

Laura was touched, just a little, also, by Mr. Priestley’s evident concern. He was a dear, and it was a shame to be hoodwinking him like this. She tried to console herself with the thought that, this time at any rate, she had spoken the truth—or something not at all unlike the truth. She was an orphan, and, except for George, she was pretty well alone in the world; and George and Annie had certainly one characteristic in common.

“Of course,” Mr. Priestley continued in somewhat hesitating tones, “of course I don’t want to force your confidence, and if you don’t wish to tell me anything, naturally you won’t do so (I could hardly expect that you would, in the circumstances), but I’ve noticed that you haven’t mentioned your name yet. Unless, of course, it really is Spettigue?”

“My name?” said Laura innocently. “Haven’t I really? No, it isn’t Spettigue. It’s—er—Merriman. Laura Merriman,” she added, adroitly turning this blank lie into a half-truth.

“And mine’s Priestley,” beamed that gentleman. “Matthew Priestley; and my address is 148D Half Moon Street.”

Once more Laura’s conscience smote her. Once more she parried the blow. What on earth was the use of playing a practical joke at all, if one was to get more and more remorseful the more successfully it developed? She looked her conscience in the face and dared it to raise its fist again; it retired, abashed. Once more logic triumphed over sickly sentimentality.

“Oh, yes,” she said colourlessly.

Mr. Priestley was toying with a toast-crumb. “And is it permitted to know what you do, or where you live?” he ventured. “Don’t tell me, if you’d rather not, of course.”

“But why shouldn’t I, Mr. Priestley? Especially considering how kind you’ve been to me. I’m a typist, and I live——” She paused. For once circumstances had caught Laura napping; she had no new story ready. The word typist had risen to her lips automatically; in the magazine-stories the distressed maiden is nearly always a typist, or a typist masquerading as somebody else, or somebody else masquerading as a typist. But for the moment her mind was perfectly empty of addresses, “I don’t live anywhere,” she plunged desperately.

“You don’t live anywhere?” repeated Mr. Priestley, with not unreasonable surprise.

“No,” said Laura, to whom had occurred a certain small light in her darkness. “I—I was a typist, you see, but——” Her voice broke artistically; she bent her dark head over her empty cup. “But I was dismissed.”

“Good gracious!” said Mr. Priestley, much concerned. “Why?”

The look Laura turned on him was a miracle. “The manager tried to make love to me,” she said in a low, halting voice. Laura was seeing her way more clearly every moment. “He—he tried to kiss me. I wouldn’t let him, so——!” She shrugged her slim shoulders. “I was dismissed, of course.”

“Scandalous!” spluttered Mr. Priestley, acutely conscious that he also had tried to kiss this same delectable person, and successfully. Yes, where haughty managers, with the power of doubled salary or dismissal in their hands, had been ignominiously repulsed, he, Mr. Priestley, had succeeded. Involuntarily he drew himself up. “Scandalous!” he repeated. “Outrageous! Who is the scoundrel?”

“The man,” said Laura with sudden inspiration, “you shot.”

“What!” exclaimed the startled Mr. Priestley.

There was a tense pause.

Laura broke it. “Oh, why shouldn’t I tell you the truth?” she said in low, bitter tones. “You’ve been kind to me. The only man who ever has.” She hesitated a moment to decide exactly what the truth should be. “Yes, that man was the manager—er—the managing-director of the firm where I worked. I got the post through the influence of an old friend of my father’s. He died shortly afterwards,” she added, neatly polishing off this possibly awkward patron.

“Dear, dear!” clucked Mr. Priestley, in respectful tribute to this very short-lived individual.

“The managing-director was kind to me,” Laura continued with more confidence. “At least, I imagined it was kindness. He made me his own private secretary. I was with him most of the day. Of course, you can see what happened. I imagined that I had fallen in love with him.”

“Well, well!” said Mr. Priestley in toleration of this maidenly madness.

“He took advantage of my innocence,” Laura went on with pathos. “I mean,” she corrected herself somewhat hastily, “he made advances to which I responded; and we used to write to each other.” That this would hardly be necessary if they saw each ether every day and nearly all day long occurred to the authoress with some force. She hurriedly skated ever this awkward passage. “Nothing wrong, you know,” she said very earnestly. “Just—well, just silly. Oh, you do understand, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, I understand, of course,” said Mr. Priestley, who didn’t.

“Then I saw the mistake I had made. I tried to get my letters back from him. He refused to let me have them. He tried to hold them over my head, to force me to accept his caresses.” I must try writing for the magazines myself, thought Laura, warming to her work; it seems to come naturally. “If I refused, he threatened to dismiss me and said that he would use the letters to prevent me from getting another post anywhere else. I did refuse, and he did dismiss me. Alas,” said Laura, bravely brushing away an imaginary tear, “it was only too true. Whenever I succeeded in finding another post, I got a letter within a day or two to say that a mistake had been made and my services would not be required. Wherever I went, that scoundrel had my footsteps dogged.” Laura paused again. “He was determined,” she added in a tense whisper, “to break me to his will.”

“The villain!” ejaculated Mr. Priestley, moist with emotion.

“So you can imagine that I was desperate to get my letters back. Already I had come to the end of my slender resources. I owed my landlady, who seized all my belongings for her rent and turned me out into the street. I was homeless, without a roof to shelter me, a rag to my back, or a penny in my purse.”

“But—but what about that car of yours,” stammered Mr. Priestley, whose eyes were nearly starting out of his head.

“Oh!” said Laura, who had been far too carried away by her sense of drama to remember such unimportant items as speedy two-seater cars. “The car, yes. The car,” she went on, pulling herself together, “belongs to the man himself.”

“The deuce it does!” commented Mr. Priestley.

“Yes,” said Laura with more confidence. “He used to lend it to me in the old days. They know me quite well at that garage where he keeps it; so of course I had no difficulty in getting it last night. You see, it was only on the spur of the moment that I spoke to you at all.”

“Good gracious!” said Mr. Priestley, who appeared to be conversing chiefly in exclamations.

“Yes, I’m afraid I was dreadfully wicked,” Laura said with engaging candour, and looked dreadfully innocent. “But I was at my wits’ end. Without a roof to cover me, a penny in my purse, a—oh, I said that before. By the way, I was wrong about the penny. I had a half-crown. I used it to pay for our coffees at the Piccadilly Palace. Anyhow, I was desperate. And I knew that I must get my letters back, or—unutterable things would happen. Unutterable things,” she added, pleased with the phrase. “He had already offered them to me—at a price,” she added further in a low voice, modestly averting her head. It was a phrase which pleased her even more.

“The abominable scoundrel!” exclaimed Mr. Priestley, positively puce about the gills. “I’m—yes, I’m glad I shot him. Thoroughly glad. I was glad when you told me he was a blackmailer. But now!”

“He deserved it,” said Laura simply, “if ever a man did.”

Once again there was a little pause while Laura congratulated herself with some heartiness. It was a good story, and it had gone down well. Besides, she pointed out to herself with conscious altruism, it would all tend to relieve Mr. Priestley’s mind. It is much less of a burden to have a death on one’s conscience for which one is extremely glad than one which calls for remorse and self-surrender.

“This car,” said Mr. Priestley, not quite so happily. “You say they know you at that garage?”

“Oh, yes; perfectly well.”

“Know your name, and all about you?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Then,” said Mr. Priestley very solemnly, “my dear Miss Spettiman—er—Merrigrew—er——”

“Won’t you call me Laura?” said his companion with timid deference, but not unhelpfully.

“Thank you, my dear Laura. Yes. Then as I was saying, my dear Laura—er—Laura, this is very serious indeed. Don’t you see? They’ll know who took that car, and I am afraid your name is bound to crop up in connection with the crime. With the accident, I should say.”

“But they won’t know it was taken down to Duffley.”

“Won’t they?” said Mr. Priestley unhappily. “I’m afraid it may come out. I believe the police are very clever indeed at tracing things. Probably they are on the look out for its number already. We must leave nothing to chance. We must abandon it by the road-side.”

“Oh!” said Laura, who did not at all wish to abandon by the road-side George’s perfectly good and very expensive car.

They stared at each other.

“This is very serious,” said Mr. Priestley again, and looked so concerned that Laura very nearly told him not to worry because there wasn’t a word of truth in her whole story. The number of times that Laura was brought to the brink of revelation, and the number of times she was jerked back from it just in time were becoming as the sands of the sea, countless.

This time it was the landlady who assisted in the jerking process, choosing that moment to enter the room with an armful of newspapers.

“Here you are, sir,” she said cheerfully. “I bought one of each, like you said.” She beamed at Laura with affectionate solicitude, a beam so knowing that Laura, who did not naturally blush very easily, coloured up to the roots of her hair. For a habitual non-blusher, Laura had put in some very good work since she arrived at Sandersworth.

Fortunately Mr. Priestley was far too intent upon his newspapers to notice her facial activities.

“I hope the breakfast was satisfactory, mum,” said the landlady, hovering eloquently.

Mr. Priestley looked up for a moment. “Yes, thank you; we’ll ring when we want you, Mrs. Er—er—um,” he said in tones of such finality that the landlady had no option but to take a reluctant departure.

Laura looked at her pseudo-husband with renewed respect. Even she could not have got rid of the garrulous little woman quite so expeditiously.

“Well, anything about it?” she asked.

The Sunday Times followed The Observer on to the floor. “Nothing in either of those two, so far as I can see,” Mr. Priestley muttered, feverishly scuttering pages.

“Try The News of the World,” Laura advised.

Mr. Priestley did so, and added it to the growing heap on the floor. Two others followed. He opened The Sunday Courier.

“God bless my soul!” muttered Mr. Priestley.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Mr. Priestley.

“What the devil!” demanded Mr. Priestley, descending abruptly.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” prophesied Mr. Priestley, and relapsed into awed silence.

“What is it?” almost screamed Laura, dancing in her chair with impatience.

Mr. Priestley continued to run a hectic eye over the lurid columns and spoke no word. Lost to the decencies, Laura jumped up and leaned openly on his shoulder, reading over it with incredulous eyes.

Suddenly she turned, ran a few steps towards the centre of the room, halted there for a moment with heaving shoulders, her back towards her startled companion, then buried her face in her hands and fled out of the room, uttering startling sounds. Mr. Priestley, hurrying in her wake, was just in time to see her disappearing into the bedroom.

He stood irresolutely at the foot of the stairs, much disconcerted; not very much experience in the art of soothing feminine emotion had come his way. Did one leave them alone, or did one try and calm them down? Mr. Priestley was much tempted to leave this one alone, but the memory of those pathetically heaving shoulders was too much for him. Heroically he mounted, on soothing bent.

Laura was lying on her face in the middle of the bed, her whole frame shaking with the most heartrending convulsions. Her face was buried in the pillow, but she waved a feeble hand towards the door as Mr. Priestley entered, as if bidding him leave her alone with her grief. Though terribly tempted to take her at her gesture Mr. Priestley forced himself forward: He progressed in a tentative way as far as the bed and stood looking down on its quivering burden.

“Er—Laura!” he hazarded, very uncomfortably.

The hand gestured again. “Go away!” beseeched a stifled voice from the depths of the pillow.

Mr. Priestley laid an uncertain hand on a slim shoulder. “Laura!” he repeated unhappily. “Er—please don’t cry.”

A fresh spasm shook the slender form. “Oh—oh, please go away!” choked the voice from the pillow.

Mr. Priestley hesitated. This was really very awkward, very awkward indeed. But it was too late to draw back now. He had come up here to soothe, and soothe he must. In the meantime, his heart-strings were being twanged to a positively painful degree by the pathetic spectacle of this intense suffering.

“L-Laura!” he squeaked in imploring tones. Nothing happened. “Oh, dear!” said Mr. Priestley. His heart-strings continued to twang.

It was too much. The vast sympathy which had been flooding Mr. Priestley’s soul for this poor forlorn little creature suddenly burst its bounds and swamped his self-consciousness. With nothing more than the instinctive impulse of the adult to comfort a child in the only way it really understands, he sat down on the edge of the bed, gently kissed the white nape and, noticing not at all the resulting very faint exclamation, gathered the slim frame up into his arms. Its owner, after a half-hearted attempt to resist, laid her dark head on his shoulder and there continued to choke.

“There, there!” said Mr. Priestley, patting gingerly. “It’s all right, my dear, it’s all right.”

For a moment Laura raised a very red face, stained with real tears. “But—b-but you—you h-haven’t got a b-broken nose!” she articulated with difficulty, and at once plunged into a further paroxysm, her head flying back to the shelter of Mr. Priestley’s shoulder like a bird to its nest.

Somewhat mystified, Mr. Priestley continued his ministrations. Why exactly the wholeness of his nose should be a source of such poignant grief to the poor little thing, escaped him for the moment; but the anguish was only too evident. He patted in silence for a space, then he rocked.

By degrees Laura grew more calm. She ceased to shake, and disengaged herself from Mr. Priestley’s soothing arms, still keeping her head averted. A fresh spasm shook her slightly from time to time, but not so violently.

“I’m all right now,” she said weakly, scrambling off the bed. “But please don’t l-look at me.”

“No,” said Mr. Priestley at once; “of course not.” He also rose and hovered uneasily.

Laura made her way, with somewhat uncertain steps, to the wash-stand, where she contemplated herself in the mirror with watery eyes. “Oh, my hat, what a ghastly fright!” was her verdict, and clinging to the marble edge, she collapsed again.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” asked Mr. Priestley of the wardrobe opposite, hearing with dismay these renewed sounds of distress behind him.

“Y-yes, quite,” quavered Laura. “Please go down now. I’ll follow as soon as I’ve sponged my face. I’m sorry I made such an idiot of myself. I’m—oh, dear, I positively ache all over!” she collapsed over the wash-stand again.

“I shall be up again to see how you are if you’re not down in five minutes,” warned Mr. Priestley from the doorway, and made a somewhat relieved escape.

Just outside the door he all but collided with the landlady, who had a broom in her hand and an intense expression on her face.

“Oh, sir,” said the landlady at once, “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but hear, seeing as I was sweeping outside. Poor young lady! If you’ll take my advice, sir (and no offence meant, I’m sure) you’ll let her off lightly at first. She’ll love you all the better for it later on. I’ve been through it meself, and I know.”

Mr. Priestley fled.

“May I go in to do the room now, sir?” the landlady called after him, a world of emphatic meaning in her penultimate word.

Mr. Priestley fled faster.

In the dining-room was peace. Pulling himself together with an effort, Mr. Priestley took out a cigarette and proceeded to peruse the incredible report in the Sunday Courier. Eight minutes later, the cigarette between his fingers still unlighted, he had read it through three times and still he could hardly believe his eyes.

“Amazing!” he commented aloud, as if to reassure himself that he really did exist and his voice really would work. “I can hardly credit it. ‘R. S. P. Doyle.’ That’s Pat Doyle. How on earth does he come to be mixed up in it?” He referred to the paper again. “‘Happened to be staying in the neighbourhood.’ Extraordinary coincidence. Whole set of extraordinary coincidences for that matter. Well, God bless my soul, what is coming now?”

The entrance of Laura supplied the answer at any rate to his last question. A rehabilitated, dry-eyed, nose-powdered Laura, very different from the moaning creature of ten minutes ago.

She began to apologise for her lack of self-control. “But really,” she added, not without adroitness, “seeing it all in print like that brought it home to me so forcibly. It seemed like a nightmare this morning; now I know it really is true. I ought not to have given way, I know, but I was so frightened. Terribly frightened.” She looked at him with wide eyes. “Oh, Mr. Priestley, what shall I do?” With a superhuman effort she refrained from expressing a preference for Birmingham, and regrets at finding herself in Crewe.

Mr. Priestley removed his pince-nez, polished them vigorously and replaced them. “Don’t you worry about that, my dear,” he told her, with a warmth which belied the paternal turn of phrase. “I shall see to that. You have already placed yourself in my hands. And very proud and gratified I am at the trust you put in me. Indeed, I have the glimmerings of a plan already. But I must ask you to read through this perfectly extraordinary report in the Sunday Courier. Incredible! You’ll see it isn’t at all what you thought at first. Nothing like it. In fact, I—but read it for yourself.” He placed a chair for her by the window and gave her the paper.

Laura read the two columns through. That she was able to do so and at the same time preserve a straight face she reckoned afterwards as perhaps the greatest of her histrionic feats. But apart from mirth, there was interest to help her. Obviously the conspirators had seen their way to improving the situation and, though some of the details were obscure, she had no difficulty in following the main lines. When she came to Mr. Reginald Foster’s story and recognised Dora’s handiwork it was all she could do not to give way again, but the test was successfully passed.

She held the paper up for a few minutes after she had come to the end, in order to give herself a thinking-space. Clearly the others hoped that the report would reach her eyes and expected her to shape her own end of the business accordingly. But what exactly were they trying to effect, and what did they want her to do? For the moment the answers to both these questions eluded her.

She dropped the paper into her lap, with a fitting expression of amazement.

“You see what must have happened?” said Mr. Priestley eagerly, whose brain also had not been inactive during this period. “Your schemes must have conflicted with something else that that scoundrel had on hand. I gather he was mixed up with this criminal gang led by the Man with the Broken Nose. They found his body, which, for some obscure reason of their own, they seem to have removed, and decamped. But why did that poor girl, who seems to be an unwilling accomplice, refer to the dead man as the Crown Prince? I don’t understand that at all.”

Nor, in fact, did Laura. The Crown Prince seemed to her the only flaw in an otherwise perfect case. “Perhaps,” she said, with a flash of inspiration, “perhaps that was the gang’s name for him, in the same way as they call their leader the Man with the Broken Nose.”

Mr. Priestley looked his admiration. “Of course! Undoubtedly that must be it. And to think that the Sunday Courier never tumbled to it! Very good, indeed, Laura, very good. And now there’s another extraordinary coincidence. You see that the report is written by a man named Doyle—R. S. P. Doyle? He’s actually a personal friend of my own.” Mr. Priestley beamed at this remarkable revelation.

“No!” said Laura, properly impressed.

“Yes, indeed he is. And it may be most useful to us, as you can understand. But about this astonishing story; it appears to me to play directly into our hands. The police and public and every one else are looking for a gang; they imagine us, indeed, to be members of the gang. We are, however, not members of any gang. Surely this is in our favour?”

“You mean, we shan’t be so easy to trace?”

“Precisely!” Mr. Priestley shone with pleasure both in Laura’s perspicacity and their combined untraceability.

They went on to discuss the affair with zest. Mr. Priestley was at first a little confused between the identity of Guy Nesbitt. Esq., and that of the dead man, till Laura pointed out that the latter was merely a paying guest for the summer in the former’s house; perfectly reasonable. Why had he been dressed up in that extraordinary way? Obviously to take part in some formal ceremony connected with the gang. Was the scoundrel a foreigner himself, like his associates? Laura believed he was, though he spoke excellent English; he had what you might call a foreign look about him. Mr. Priestley agreed that he had. Was it Laura who had sent the message which drew the Nesbitts away from the house? No, that was the extraordinary thing, she hadn’t; she had thought they were going away for the week-end, as their maids had been given leave of absence. Evidently the message must have been sent by some member of the gang, probably the dead one, in order to leave the house clear for their own activities.

In short, it was, as they both agreed, a Very Extraordinary Business.

Mr. Priestley then announced that it was time for them to be leaving the inn and getting rid of the car, and Laura meekly went upstairs to put on her hat. Mr. Priestley very unwillingly sought out the landlady and obtained both his bill, which he wanted, and a great quantity of useful advice to young husbands, which he didn’t.

They got into the incriminating two-seater and drove off, the landlady continuing to press them to return each year on this important anniversary in their lives and she’d turn the place upside-down to give them a welcome. Mr. Priestley, smiling and nodding uneasily, did not point out that he much preferred the houses where he was made welcome to be right way up; the result might be less striking, but it was much more convenient.

They drove towards Manstead.

Mr. Priestley was of the opinion that the car should be abandoned by the side of the road. Laura was determined to do nothing of the sort and said so, emphasising her decision by the argument that this would inevitably put the police on their trail, whereas the car might lie in a garage for months without being found. Mr. Priestley was impressed by this reasoning and acquiesced.

In Manstead, therefore, Laura dropped Mr. Priestley by the station and drove the car alone to the nearest garage that was open. She told him that she was doing this in order to lessen the chances of detection, for while one young woman is very much like another young woman, because both will inevitably be wearing exactly the same shape of hat and the same length of skirt, Mr. Priestley was emphatically only like Mr. Priestley. Laura was, therefore, at liberty to tell the man at the garage that the car would be called for in a day or two by a large gentleman answering to the name of Mr. George Howard, who would pay all dues upon it. Having said this, she thoughtfully added that while the car was there it might just as well as not have its brakes taken up a little, its clutch eased, its paintwork washed down and, in short, a general and comprehensive overhaul, with replacement of all defective parts. Laura and the garage man then parted, excellent friends.

Mr. Priestley had taken two tickets to London, and was awaiting his travelling-companion with feverish impatience. There was a train just due, and not another for three hours.

They caught it, by the skin of Mr. Priestley’s left shin.

At ease in an empty first-class compartment they were at liberty to relax and regain their breath, which Mr Priestley did to the accompaniment of vigorous rubbing of his left shin. Then he replaced his pince-nez, which had fallen off in the rush, and beamed with altruistic (or nearly altruistic) benevolence at his protégée.

“About this plan of mine that I mentioned,” beamed Mr. Priestley. “I never told you about it, did I?”

“No, I don’t believe you did,” politely said Laura, who had also been making a plan of her own. Laura’s plan was simple. It consisted in giving Mr. Priestley the slip on the first opportunity after they had reached London, and taking the first available train back to Duffley.

“Well,” said Mr. Priestley, happily unconscious of this, “what I propose is that you take up your residence in my rooms, where you can remain to all intents and purposes in hiding.”

“Oh!” said Laura, somewhat taken aback. “But——”

Mr. Priestley held up a protesting hand. “No, please! I know exactly what you are going to say. You are a high-spirited girl, and I quite understand. But it will not be charity at all. I propose also to offer you the post of private secretary to myself.” And with the triumphant air of one who has removed all obstacles, Mr. Priestley leaned back in his corner and smiled happily.

“But,” began Laura again, a little more faintly this time. “But——”

Once more Mr. Priestley held up a hand, now invested with quiet authority. “I insist,” he said with dignity, “You, yourself, have conferred the privilege of insistence upon me, and I exercise it. I insist!”

“Oh!” said Laura feebly. “All right, then. Er—thank you, Mr. Priestley, very much.”

“If I call you Laura,” Mr. Priestley pointed out with gentle reproof, “surely you ought to call me Matthew.”

“Thank you, Matthew,” said Laura meekly.

She had not the heart to point out to this engaging babe that it really is not done to keep young women in bachelor rooms, even with the most unselfish intentions; nor is it exactly healthy for the said young woman’s reputation to consent to take up her residence in a bachelor’s rooms, even through a desire not to hurt the bachelor’s feelings by refusing to do so. These things did not appear to touch Mr. Priestley. He was not of the world, worldly; he was of the elect, a big-hearted infant. And to talk of scandal to infants and put nasty worldly, prurient ideas into their innocent heads is manifestly no woman’s job.

But as to what was really going to happen——! Laura shrugged her shoulders whimsically and looked out of the window. She had asked for it, and apparently she was getting it. But it was a pity that she did not appear to be able to invent any story at all which did not recoil on her own shingled head.

What was she going to do? She shrugged her shoulders again.

Anyhow—it was deadly dull in Duffley.

Chapter XI.
Perspicacity of a Chief Constable

For quite fifteen seconds George dithered silently on the doorstep. A Chief Constable was the last thing he had expected to be called upon to confront, and a stern-eyed, unsmiling, purposeful-looking Chief Constable at that. So far as George knew, Chief Constables were a contingency for which no preparation had been made at all. And of course it would happen when both Guy and Doyle were not here to deal with it.

“Mr. N-n-nesbitt?” dithered George. “He-he’s out.”

“Where is he?” asked the unsmiling Chief Constable sharply.

“Over at M-Mr. F-Foster’s, I think,” replied George, feeling under those penetrating blue eyes exactly like a schoolboy up before his head master. George would not have been the least surprised at that moment had the Chief Constable produced a serviceable birch-rod from his person and remarked sternly: “I’m going to birch you, boy!” He would have assumed a suitable attitude without hesitation.

The Chief Constable, missing his opportunity, continued only to bore into George’s brain with his piercing glance. “When’s he coming back?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” said George feebly.

The Chief Constable digested this. “Is Mrs. Nesbitt at home?” he rapped out.

“Yes,” said George, without thinking. “No,” he added, thinking hastily. “Yes,” he corrected himself, thinking further. “I mean, I don’t know,” he concluded, ceasing to think at all.

The Chief Constable looked surprised. “Is Mrs. Nesbitt at home or not?” he asked sarcastically. “Take your time, Mr. Howard, and try to remember.”

George blushed warmly. He knew he was not handling the situation with all the tactful skill that his accomplices might require of him, but after all, what did it matter? Whatever he did was sure to be wrong. He decided to tell the truth, not especially to shame the devil but rather because it is so much easier.

“She’s in the house, oh, yes,” said George with sudden cunning. “But I don’t know whether she’s at home, you know.” George knew all about that sort of thing. Women were often in a house, but that did not mean they were at home; not a bit of it. When is a woman in a house not at home? When George Howard called on her. Yes, George knew quite a lot about that sort of thing.

“I see,” said the Chief Constable coldly. “She’s in the house, but you don’t know whether she’s at home. Is she dressed?”

“Good Lord, yes,” cried George, much shocked. Dash it all, he’d only been with her two minutes ago himself. Wouldn’t have been with Cynthia if she hadn’t been dressed, would he? Dash this fellow!

“Then will you kindly present my compliments to Mrs. Nesbitt, and ask her if I may see her?” said the Colonel, speaking slowly and distinctly, as to one of mediocre receptive powers. “If Colonel Ratcliffe, the Chief Constable, may see her,” he added, making the business perfectly plain.

“You want to see me?” said a cool voice from inside the hall.

George stood aside with a sigh of relief. Thank goodness, Cynthia had taken the thing into her own hands.

Cynthia and Colonel confronted one another. Cynthia smiled.

Now Cynthia’s smile has been mentioned before, cursorily. This time it must have the attention paid to it which it really deserves. For Cynthia’s smile plays a very important part in this story from now onwards; its effects were singularly far-reaching. Cynthia’s smile then, was very sweet, very infectious, very disturbing, and at the same time very soothing. A cross bull in full charge coming suddenly within the rays of Cynthia’s smile would probably pull up short, bow politely and offer to die for the Prime Minister. Cynthia, it may be said, was perfectly aware of the value of her smile, and she employed it quite unscrupulously; whenever she wanted her own way, for instance, or to put a nervous person at his ease, or to persuade somebody into a course of action which was totally repugnant to him. The number of hats Cynthia had cozened out of her husband simply by smiling for them was remarkable.

Cynthia did not feel like a schoolboy in the presence of the Chief Constable. She just went on smiling at him, and in thirty seconds that austere man was, metaphorically speaking, frisking playfully about her feet.

“Oh, so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Nesbitt,” he said almost genially, “but I wanted to see if you can throw any light on this extraordinary affair here last night. If you would——”

“I’m sorry,” Cynthia interposed firmly, but still smiling, “but I can’t possibly. None at all. I’m sorry. Why don’t you go up to Mr. Foster’s and see my husband?”

“That’s the gentleman who spoke to the young woman in the garden,” interposed the Inspector with paternal helpfulness.

The Colonel, still under the influence of Cynthia’s smile, did not wither him with biting sarcasm; he just nodded. “Yes, that’s quite a good idea, Mrs. Nesbitt,” he said mildly. “I will. Thank you. I’m so sorry to have bothered you.”

“Not at all,” said Cynthia politely, and closed the door on her smile. As she walked back to the drawing-room, followed by a respectful George, the smile disappeared.

“And I hope that husband of mine will enjoy the interview,” said Cynthia, quite viciously. “I fancy he won’t find the Colonel quite such easy game as that poor dear old Inspector.”

George was inclined to agree with her.

In the meantime the poor dear old Inspector was walking (at a quite unnecessary pace, as he felt) along the road beside his superior, and as they walked the effects of the smile wore off for both of them. To the Chief Constable the world slowly ceased to be a rose-coloured place, full of sweet things and noble thoughts, and became once more a drab-coloured concern, where people do very naughty things indeed; to the Inspector it became a place where solid worth and invaluable experience do not always meet their due.

“In the Garfield Case, sir,” observed the Inspector in somewhat dogged tones, evidently resuming a previous conversation, “the first thing I did was to measure up the furniture in the room where the murder had been committed.”

“Why?” asked the Colonel shortly. Like most people who had come into contact with Inspector Cottingham for more than five minutes at a time, the Colonel felt that he wanted to go out and bay the moon as soon as the word “Garfield” cropped up in the conversation.

The Inspector coughed slightly and looked up at the sky. That was the trouble with Colonel Ratcliffe, he would ask silly questions. He was a nice enough man taken all round, if a bit on the young side, but he’d be very much nicer if he’d only recognise once and for all that he was new to this game, and the Inspector was not. But did he recognise it? He did not. From the way he spoke sometimes, you might think that it was he who was the old hand, with a neatly solved murder mystery tucked away behind him, and the Inspector the novice. And he would ask such silly questions.

“Why, sir?” repeated the Inspector in tones of surprise. Inspector Cottingham had always regarded his measuring of the furniture as a primary stroke of immense and subtle cunning. True, it had led to nothing just as matters turned out, but it might have produced all sorts of exciting results; and anyhow, it smacked of the professional touch in a most gratifying way, and now here was this absurd Chief Constable wanting to know why.

“Well, for the same reason as I measured ’em last night, sir,” said the Inspector, playing for time. “Because—because—well——”

“In the Garfield case, Cottingham,” said the Colonel patiently, coming to the rescue, “as I keep telling you, you had a body. Here you haven’t. And you can’t do anything until the body is found. Therefore, the first thing to do is to find the body. I think I’ve said something like that before.”

The Inspector sighed, very gently. “But the body isn’t there, sir,” he pointed out. “And for why? Because they took it away with ’em.”

“How do you know they did?”

Here the Inspector was on surer ground. “Why, sir,” he countered triumphantly, “because the girl told Mr. Foster so.” This was the way things ought to be done. This was the way a real detective got his results. Not by chasing round, searching for bodies that weren’t there, but by sitting tight and looking official till somebody came along and revealed the whole thing.

“It didn’t occur to you, I suppose,” said the Colonel very mildly, “that she might not have been speaking the truth?”

“No, sir, it didn’t,” replied the Inspector firmly. “Why should it? She wouldn’t say anything at all if she wasn’t going to speak the truth. Why should she? Besides, Graves saw ’em taking the body away.” The Inspector felt he had scored a distinct point there. “That’s right,” he added, clinching it. “Graves saw ’em at it.”

“Have you had Copham Spinney searched, as I told you over the telephone?” asked the Colonel, changing the subject.

“Yes, sir. Graves had a look all round there and along that bank first thing this morning.” The Inspector spoke tolerantly, as one humouring a feeble-minded aunt. Graves had been sent to search Copham Spinney and the other bank because that was the Colonel’s orders, but both the Inspector and Graves himself had known it was a mere waste of time. And for why? Because the body was hundreds of miles away by this time, and on its way to foreign parts. That stood to reason. “He didn’t find anything though, of course,” he added, winking at a passing gate.

“Graves!” snorted the Colonel. “Graves wouldn’t see a body if it came walking along the tow-path towards him.”

The Inspector smiled politely at his superior’s humour. “Now, in the Garfield case, sir,” he remarked chattily, “what they——”

“I don’t like it, I don’t like it!” said the Colonel hastily. The roseate hues had quite faded from the Colonel’s horizon by this time. In a really rosy world a murder is invariably accompanied by its appropriate body; murders without bodies attached would be very rare indeed. “The whole tale sounds fishy to me. Sounds just like a situation in a cheap thriller.”

“Well, fancy that, sir!” beamed the Inspector, much struck by this example of powerful minds working in unison. “That’s just what I said last night.”

“And where’s that body?” barked the Colonel, with sudden wrath, as if he expected his companion to produce it instead of a rabbit out of his helmet. “We can’t do anything without that. We can’t even establish the fact of murder at all.”

“Well, we can’t do much without a body,” the Inspector went so far as to admit, “and that’s a fact.”

The Colonel relapsed for a moment or two into moody silence.

“If you ask me, Cottingham,” he said, a little explosively, “I believe the whole thing’s a mare’s nest. I don’t believe there is a body. I don’t believe there was even a murder. I believe Graves has been seeing visions.”

“Oh, come, sir,” chided the Inspector, who had no intention of being robbed of his murder in this high-handed manner. “Graves doesn’t drink as much as that, he doesn’t. Besides, he heard the shot and he examined the body. The man was dead right enough, Graves says. Tall, big chap, he was, one of them foreigners; Frenchy or German or something. Big black beard, he’d got, Graves said, and wearing——”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted the Colonel testily. “I know perfectly well what Graves said, and in my opinion he imagined the whole thing. May have seen something, perhaps, and imagined the rest. Apparently handcuffed two people together, if one can believe a single word he says (probably two quite innocent people, if I know Graves), and——”

“But what about Mr. Foster, sir?” interrupted the Inspector, his perturbation overcoming his manners. “You know what he says. You wouldn’t say he drank, would you, sir? Not Mr. Foster?”

“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” said the Colonel coolly, “if somebody wasn’t pulling Mr. Foster’s leg. And I shouldn’t be even surprised,” he added quite gently, “if the same people weren’t trying to pull yours too.”

“Lor’, sir!” gasped the Inspector, and lapsed into silence.

“In which case,” said the Colonel, very softly, “it’s our business to make them sorry for it. Very sorry indeed. Just bear that in mind, will you?”

By the expression on the Inspector’s face it seemed that he bore it with difficulty. The two walked on in silence, chewing the cud of the Colonel’s devastating theory. Along the road towards them, moving blithely and conversing with the utmost animation, came two figures.

“That’s Mr. Nesbitt, sir,” said the Inspector. “And that’s Mr. Doyle with him.”

“Doyle? That’s the feller who wrote all that twaddle in the Sunday Courier this morning, isn’t it?”

“He did say he was going to send in a report of the case,” agreed the Inspector a little uneasily. He had read the report through that morning, till he almost knew it by heart, and no more delighted Inspector of Police would have been found in the country; now his delight was beginning to show signs of waning.

“Humph!” observed the Colonel, busily putting two and two together and obtaining a perfectly correct answer. He glanced at the Inspector’s face and from the look of wounded bewilderment upon its surface deduced further that his colleague, though sorrowfully regarding the possibility that one of his legs might be a little longer than it was yesterday, was by no means sure of it; in any case, he had as yet not the faintest suspicion as to the identity of the author of this outrage. The Colonel decided not to enlighten him.

“About what I said just now, Cottingham, that the whole thing may be a hoax,” he said, “keep that to yourself for the time being. I may be wrong, and we must get to the bottom of it first.”

“Very well, sir,” agreed the Inspector, brightening slightly before this admission of doubt.

The two pairs came face to face and halted.

“Mr. Nesbitt and Mr. Doyle?” said the Colonel mildly. “Let me introduce myself, Colonel Ratcliffe.”

“Oh, yes?” murmured Guy politely.

“I’m Doyle, this is Nesbitt,” supplied Mr. Doyle, scanning the newcomer with a hopeful eye. Any chance of a fresh victim here?

If the Colonel read this thought he took prompt steps to answer it. “I’m the Chief Constable,” he said, and watched Guy’s face intently. Was a flicker of apprehension, faint yet discernible, going to pass swiftly across it? There was not a flicker. The Colonel was disappointed. As a matter of fact he had been watching the wrong face.

“Oh, yes?” said Guy, without a flicker.

“I’ve just been round to your place to see you, but your wife told me you were this way so we came along to meet you. I wanted to ask you a few questions about this business last night.”

“Of course,” Guy said warmly. “But there’s very little I can tell you, I’m afraid. I was absent all the interesting time. Most annoying; I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds. I was completely taken in by that note.”

“Really?” said the Colonel in honeyed tones, and began to put his questions. They fell into line across the road and walked back towards Dell Cottage.

Whatever dark suspicions were hidden in the Colonel’s bosom, he betrayed no sign of them. Questioning Guy closely about the note, its contents, the handwriting and what had happened to it, then about his movements from the moment he left home to the time he returned to discover P. C. Graves immured in his library cupboard, he appeared perfectly satisfied with the ready answers he received. Turning his attention to Mr. Doyle (who had now had time to recover himself and no longer flickered), he posed another set of queries and again appeared to accept the answers in all good faith. So did the listening Inspector.

They passed through the faithful crowd and reached the Cottage and Guy asked the Colonel in for a drink. The Colonel was most grateful. He not only had a drink, but made a thorough examination of what Mr. Doyle referred to persistently as “the scene of the outrage.” Mr. Doyle also showed him a plan he had been at some pains to draw up for the benefit of the readers of The Courier, in which the position of the body was marked with a cross.

“Oh, yes,” said the Colonel blandly. “And how did you know exactly where the body was?”

“Me?” said Mr. Doyle with innocent surprise. “Nesbitt showed me. And the constable—what’s his name? Graves—showed Nesbitt.”

And so for a long hour or more did the Colonel lay his traps and his intended victims skirt happily round them. At the end of that time the former went away a baffled man, with nothing more definite than some scrapings of the blood from the carpet in his pocket.

“But that’s quite enough to clinch it,” he told Inspector Cottingham, who went with him. “I’ll bet a hundred to one that it’s chicken’s blood, or something like that. And while it’s being analysed I shall have a few things for you to do. There are some points I want checked.” And drawing a pencil and notebook from his pocket, he proceeded to make brief notes as he walked along, of the main heads of the story Guy had told him.

At the same time that gentleman was ushering Mr. Doyle into the drawing-room, where Cynthia and George, having made all the conversation available, had fallen into a somewhat moody silence.

Cynthia greeted her husband unkindly. “Well, Guy,” she said. “I suppose he saw through you?”

“Saw through me, my dear? What an extraordinary idea. Certainly not. He didn’t see through me, Doyle, did he?”

“Not for a moment,” Mr. Doyle assured him with conviction. “You were as opaque as—as George.”

“Wives are most mistrustful people,” Guy murmured, dropping into a chair and extending his long legs. “As a matter of fact, Cynthia, I handled the gallant Colonel with considerable skill.”

“Did you?” said Cynthia, patently unconvinced.

“He put the wind up me,” George contributed. “Those blue eyes of his, eh? Seemed to look right through you.”

“You see, Nesbitt?” said Doyle. “The workings of a guilty conscience. Most instructive.” He contemplated George with interest. “Apparently not only a murderer, but his victim as well, feels uneasy afterwards.”

“Yes, and talking of murders,” said Cynthia with energy, “I insist on you two getting hold of that poor Mr. Priestley and putting him out of his misery.” She went on to elaborate her demands at some length.

“Oh, come, dear,” said Guy, shocked. “This is not the spirit of scientific investigation. This is (I’m sorry to have to say it, but the truth must be faced) paltry pusillanimity.”

“‘Paltry pusillanimity,’” repeated Mr. Doyle with admiration. “Very nice. I must work that into my next article. It can come in about the police.”

“Do you know there’ve been three reporters here already while you’ve been out?” said George gloomily. Cynthia having refused to allow a single one of them to set foot inside the house, it had fallen to George to get rid of them; that was why he was gloomy.

“Good enough!” stated Mr. Doyle with satisfaction. “The leaven is beginning to work. Three, did you say? I shall be able to double my rates to The Courier soon, and get twelve mohair mats instead of six. What does one do with twelve mohair mats, Cynthia? You’re a housewife and ought to know these things.”

“Be quiet about mohair mats! I want to know whether you’re going to tell Mr. Priestley the truth?”

“No,” said her husband firmly.

“No,” said Mr. Doyle firmly.

Cynthia looked at George.

“No,” said George weakly.

“We don’t even know where he is,” pointed out Guy.

“What’s his address?” Cynthia demanded of Mr. Doyle.

“I don’t know,” replied that gentleman promptly.

“Liar!”

“Exactly!”

Cynthia set her lips in a thin line. “Very well,” she said, just breaking the line to let the words through. “Very well.”

“Nesbitt,” said Mr. Doyle. “I’m afraid your wife doesn’t approve of us.”

“I don’t think she ever has approved of me,” confessed Guy, not without pathos. “That’s why she married me. No woman ever marries a man she approves of, you know.”

Cynthia laughed. “Oh, it’s no good getting cross with you babies. But I do wish you’d grow up some time before you die, Guy.”

“Heaven forbid, my dear!”

Mr. Doyle had drawn a sheet of note-paper out of his pocket and was studying it thoughtfully. He handed it across to Guy.

“Do you think, Nesbitt, that something might be done with this? I purloined it, as one might say. It has the address at the top, but that can always be cut off. And it’s nice distinctive paper, isn’t it? I should think,” said Mr. Doyle still more thoughtfully, “that if a search were ever instigated in this neighbourhood for a piece of paper like that, there’s only one house in which it could be run to earth.”

Guy began to steal jam. “You mean, if certain words were inscribed on it in block capitals, as I was describing to our friend the Colonel just now?”

“Exactly. And then if one took a swift car (yours, for instance) and dropped this piece of paper inscribed with block capitals in a certain place where four roads meet, as you were also describing to your friend. I think you get me?”

“This afternoon it shall be done.”

“Now,” corrected Mr. Doyle. “That Colonel’s going to let no grass grow. This afternoon may be too late.”

“You’re right. Now it is. I’ll do that, while you might be attending to a certain matter concerning boots, about which we were going to be so cunning. Do you know, dear,” said Guy, turning to his wife, “Mr. Foster has a small piece nicked out of the sole of his left boot. We noticed it in his footmarks in the garden this morning. Isn’t that interesting? Doyle here thinks it’s a new fashion, so he’s going to nick a bit out of one of George’s (which happen to be the same size and shape) so that George can be in the swim too. Isn’t that kind of him?”

“What’s all this about?” asked George uneasily. George was a man who set a certain value on his boots.

“But oh,” sighed Mr. Doyle, “how I wish that Reginald, besides having a broken boot, had a broken nose as well. How very blissful life would then be.”

Cynthia giggled suddenly. She did not approve of all this nonsense; indeed, she most strongly disapproved. But then, on the other hand she did not love Mr. Foster. She knew she ought to love Mr. Foster, because Mr. Foster was her neighbour (distant, if not distant enough) and Cynthia had been brought up in the orthodox way. But certainly she did not love Mr. Foster. This was all the more unkind seeing that she had never even met him.

“But he has!” giggled Cynthia. “It was broken in a boxing-match at school. He told Mary James all about it once, and Mary told me. He told her all about it,” added Cynthia feelingly, “for nearly an hour on end.”

As if moved on a single string, Guy and Mr. Doyle rose and clung to each other in silence.

“This is one of the times that are too sacred for speech,” observed Mr. Doyle a moment later with considerable emotion. “I must return to my concealed fiancée and George’s boots. Good-bye, Cynthia. George, you may follow me if you like, but don’t attempt to emulate me. I shall be walking on air, and that’s so dangerous for the uninitiated.” He moved with rapture out of the room.

After an uncertain moment, George followed him.

Guy smiled at his wife. “It’s twelve o’clock, darling, that’s all. Just time for a nice little spin before lunch. Care for one?”

Cynthia tried to look cross with him and failed. “Guy, you are so ridiculous. I don’t know whether to be furious with you or glad.”

“Be glad, darling. It’s so much less wearing. By the way, are you now going to run upstairs and put on your hat?”

“Certainly not, Mr. Nesbitt,” said Cynthia with dignity and ran upstairs to do so.

Chapter XII.
Mr. Priestley Becomes an Uncle

It is to be recorded that when Mr. Priestley’s tour arrived in London, the member of it known variously as Miss Howard, Mrs. Spettigue, Miss Merrriman and Laura, did not slip away from it. She was hard put to it to explain to herself exactly why she did not, for opportunity after opportunity continued to present itself with sickening plausibility. Perhaps the reason she gave Cynthia later is as good as any: she simply hadn’t the heart. Anyhow, the consequence was that, some half-hour afterwards, Laura found herself walking delicately over the threshold of Mr. Priestley’s bachelor rooms, still in the rôle of a damsel in distress without a rag to her back or a penny in her purse; though now she had a roof to her head, Mr. Priestley’s.

The lender of the roof led her into his study and rang for his man. Twenty seconds later that functionary stood before him, pale, genteel, with a face as like a boiled egg as ever. Nothing had ever been known to disturb this Being, not even when Mr. Priestley, ten years younger and just beginning to open wondering eyes to the sinfulness of this world, had ostentatiously taken to locking up his cigars when not himself requiring the box; so far from being disturbed, all the Being had done was to take, unobtrusively and in a gentlemanly way, an impression of the cigar-cabinet key, walk along to the nearest locksmith’s and then proceed as before. If, therefore, anybody could have been so futile as to expect him to show signs of surprise at Mr. Priestley’s fracture of a life-long habit in spending an unexpected and unheralded night, and at that an unpacked-for night, away from home, returning the next afternoon with a personable young woman in tow, then that person deserved all the contempt which Barker would scorn to bestow on him. After all, Barker set a certain value on his contempt.

“You rang, sir?” said Barker, taking in Mr. Priestley’s somewhat unkempt appearance, his torn trouser-leg and the personable young woman at a single glance, and not batting an eyelid.

“Yes, some tea, please, Barker,” said Mr. Priestley briskly.

“Very good, sir.” Barker began to progress towards the door. Barker never did anything quite so vulgar as exactly to walk, nor did he precisely glide, chassis or slither; he just progressed. The sound of Mr. Priestley attacking his quite admirable fire stopped him. He retrogressed.

“Permit me, sir,” said Barker, neatly twitching the poker out of Mr. Priestley’s grasp. He dropped on one knee on the hearthrug as if about to breathe a prayer up the chimney, and lightly tapped three pieces of blazing coal. The fire was as perfect as a fire in this world can be, and Barker was not going to demean himself by pretending that he thought it anything else. But he was prepared lightly to tap three pieces of coal out of sheer courtesy.

Mr. Priestley also knew the fire was a perfectly admirable fire, though he was quite prepared to demean himself by pretending to think otherwise. He had, in fact, gripped the poker as a means of ensuring Barker’s presence in the room for another two minutes, by the end of which period Mr. Priestley devoutly hoped he would have jumped his next two fences. They were fences at which he shied a good deal.

He took a running leap at the first one. “By the way, Barker,” he said, with the chattiness of sheer nerves, “this is Miss Merriman—Miss Laura Merriman, Barker—a cousin of mine, who is going to stay with me here for a little while.”

“Very good, sir,” Barker acquiesced woodenly in this momentous news.

“She—she will assist me in a secretarial capacity,” continued Mr. Priestley unnecessarily. “She is a trained typist, and—and she will assist me in a secretarial capacity.”

“Very good, sir,” repeated Barker stolidly from the hearthrug. Not a sign appeared on his boiled-egglike countenance of the joyful interest he was feeling in his master’s unexpected depravity and his wonder why the old josser should think it necessary to fill him up with all this bunkum about cousins and secretarial capacities. Barker had no doubt that this tidy bit of goods was here to assist Mr. Priestley all right, but not in a secretarial capacity.

The tidy bit of goods, seated in an arm-chair, demurely contemplated her shoes, unconscious of these uncharitable reflections.

“That’s all right then,” said Mr. Priestley, with relief at this first fence safely negotiated. “So get the spare room ready, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Barker rose and dusted the knees of his trousers with mild reproach. “And the young lady’s luggage?” he asked maliciously.

“Her—her luggage?” stammered Mr. Priestley, who had not expected this query. “Oh, it’s—yes, it’s been mislaid. Most—er—annoying. You quite lost sight of it on the journey, didn’t you, Laura?”

“Oh, quite,” Laura agreed, heroically suppressing a giggle.

“Should you like me to go and make inquiries about it, sir?” asked Barker, still more maliciously.

“No, no,” said Mr. Priestley testily. “We—we have already attended to that. Of course we have.”

“Very good, sir,” replied Barker with a perfectly blank face. He turned to go. Of course the bit of goods had no luggage, he’d known that all along; but he had felt that Mr. Priestley deserved the question. Fancy trying to take him in with silly tales about cousins and secretarial capacities! Barker felt almost hurt.

“Oh, and Barker!”

Barker turned back resignedly, but continuing to impersonate a boiled-egg. “Sir?”

Mr. Priestley was fumbling inside his waistcoat, his face exceedingly red. After a little preliminary manœuvring he extended his left arm; the wrist was encircled by an unmistakable handcuff, from which another handcuff dangled wistfully.

“A friend of mine,” said Mr. Priestley with considerable dignity, “fastened this foolish contrivance on my wrists. I have managed to get one free, but I cannot liberate the other. Will you please find some instrument to—er—to free me with?”

Barker looked at his employer’s wrist, and then at his employer’s red but dignified face. His lips twitched. His face suddenly took on a poached aspect, and then a positively scrambled one.

“Very good,” he began bravely, “s-s-s——” A hoarse cry suddenly escaped from him and he dived from the room. Further hoarse sounds were distinctly audible from the passage outside.

Mr. Priestley looked at the closed door with considerable interest. “Do you know,” he said with mild wonder, “I believe Barker actually laughed then. He must be human after all.”

Mr. Priestley was right. Barker was human. Exceedingly human thoughts were coursing through Barker’s mind as he busied himself in preparing the tea. But what was surprising Barker so very much was to find that Mr. Priestley was human too.

“The wicked old sinner!” commented Barker to the tea-caddy. “To think of ’im breaking out like a two-year-old after all this time! Ah, well,” reflected Barker philosophically, “they always do say the older you grow the friskier you get.”

In the study the frisky one proceeded to elaborate his plan.

“You must have clothes, of course,” he said. “Perhaps we had better go out to-morrow morning and get you some. Now how much money,” asked Mr. Priestley diffidently, “does a girl’s outfit cost? Including everything, I mean?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” said Laura warmly, touched afresh by this large-hearted generosity. “It’s out of the question.”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Priestley firmly. “It’s essential. Please don’t be obstinate, Laura. You must have clothes. Would—do you think a hundred pounds would be enough to get you what you require? I know women’s clothes are exceedingly expensive,” added Mr. Priestley, somehow contriving to apologise to the object of his charity for this awkward quality of her own garments.

Laura gasped.

“I always keep a hundred pounds in cash on the premises, just for emergencies,” explained Mr. Priestley happily, “so you see there is no difficulty about that at all.” “For, of course,” added Mr. Priestley’s expression, “one might just as well spend the silly stuff as keep it lying about here for nothing; and just at the moment I think I’d rather spend it on girl’s clothes than anything else.” One gathered from Mr. Priestley’s expression that Laura would really be doing him a very great favour if she would allow Mr. Priestley to spend his own hundred pounds on a number of garments which could be of really very little practical use to himself.

“It’s out of the question,” said Laura feebly. “I—I couldn’t hear of it.”

“I insist,” retorted Mr. Priestley with his famous imitation of a strong if not silent man.

The discussion raged.

Mr. Priestley closed it with a snap. “Very well,” he said, “if you refuse to come with me, I shall go out and buy them alone.”

A horrified vision arose before Laura’s eyes of the garments Mr. Priestley might be expected to purchase if left to himself. Sheer desperation presented her with the essentials of a scheme for escaping from the impasse. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll give in, though I don’t approve of it at all. But of course it’s perfectly sweet of you. I’ll let you pay for the clothes on one condition—that I go and buy them alone. You know,” she added persuasively, “you wouldn’t really like coming to lingerie shops with me, would you?”

“Not at all,” beamed Mr. Priestley. “But I’ll tell you why I wished to come with you. Because I didn’t want to let you out of my sight! You are an independent girl, and I was afraid that if I let you go out alone you quite possibly would not return.”

“Oh!” said Laura, having had this very intention.

“I may have been wrong,” continued Mr. Priestley happily, “but I feared that, once you were out of my clutches, so to speak, you would begin to imagine all sorts of foolish things, such as that your presence here might possibly—er—embarrass me, as it were, and that I should not care to be saddled with the responsibility of looking after you. Nothing,” said Mr. Priestley very earnestly, “could in reality be further from the truth. I will, therefore, agree to your condition upon one of my own: that you give me your word of honour to return here whenever you go out, either to-day or to-morrow, take up your residence as I suggested, and look upon this place as your home until all this awkward affair is finally cleared up.” He smiled at her benevolently.

“Oh!” said Laura blankly.

Now Laura was not one of those feeble-minded creatures who go through life with the fatuous question constantly on their lips: What will people say? She did not care a rap what people said about her (which was perhaps as well); all that concerned her was what she was. But however free from conventional ties a young woman may consider herself, to take up her residence in a bachelor’s flat is not a step to be made without a certain amount of reflection; if one only owes the duty of essentials to oneself, one does owe a certain duty of external appearances to one’s friends and relations. On the other hand, those friends and relations, being themselves clean-minded people, would, if they ever came to hear of the escapade at all, certainly recognise Mr. Priestley for the innocent babe he was.

Nevertheless half an hour ago, in spite of everything, Laura would have said very decidedly, “No,” and proceeded with her plan of escape. Now the whole situation was altered by Mr. Priestley’s utter generosity. To throw the gift he was trying to make back in his face would, in one sense, be the act of a complete rotter. After all, as she had had occasion to remind herself before, she had asked for everything and it was only poetic justice that she should get it. As things were, she owed Mr. Priestley all the reparation she could give him. But nevertheless, modern though she considered herself, there were limits even to such reparation, and was not to compromise herself hopelessly and for ever quite decidedly one of them? Oh, Lord, she didn’t know what to do!

“All right,” Laura heard her own voice saying, “I agree. I give you my solemn word.” She listened to it with astonishment. So far as she knew, she had not arrived at any decision at all; apparently she had been wrong. The words seemed to have come out of her mouth without any volition on her part at all. Laura was grateful to her mouth; at any rate it had solved this very awkward problem for her.

Mr. Priestley replied fittingly.

“And I know what I’ll do,” Laura went on, speaking this time of her own free will. “I’ll adopt you as an uncle. That’ll make everything all right, won’t it?” The British mind, it has been said, loves a compromise.

Mr. Priestley looked slightly disappointed. He did not feel at all avuncular.

Twenty minutes later Laura, having obtained leave of absence for half an hour, was in Piccadilly, a smile on her lips and laughter in her heart. Now that the die actually was cast, she was prepared to enjoy the situation to its fullest extent. And anyhow, Duffley really was deadly dull.

She entered the Piccadilly Palace and made a bee-line for the telephone room. Their own house at Duffley was not on the telephone, and she gave the Nesbitt’s number. A quarter of an hour later she got it.

“Yes?” said Cynthia’s voice very wearily. “What is it?”

“Is that you, Cynthia darling? Lawks speaking.”

“Oh!” Cynthia’s voice brightened considerably. “I thought it was another wretched reporter. They’ve been buzzing round here like flies all the afternoon, and the telephone’s been going continuously. Lawks, what have you been doing, my dear?”

“Hush! Telephones have ears, you know, besides the ones at each end. I’ll tell you all about everything when I see you. My dear, I’ve had a perfectly hectic time. I—no, not now. Cynthia, will you take a message across for me to Dawks?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“I want her to pack a trunk for me. Tell her to put in my gray costume, my new black georgette, my …” A long list followed here, of intimate interest to both Laura and Cynthia, and none at all to the reader. “Oh, well, if you can’t remember all that, just tell her all my new spring things, my best evening frocks and my choicest undies. And I want you to tell George that——” Details followed of the car and the garage at Manstead.

“But Lawks, what ever are you doing?”

“Never mind, darling; of that anon. Oh, and tell Dawks to bring the trunk up here to-morrow morning, put it in the cloakroom, and meet me in the Piccadilly Palace lounge at twelve sharp.”

“I’ll see to it,” said Cynthia, to whom an idea had just occurred. “Yes, very well. Lawks, how’s—you know, your little friend?”

“Oh, sitting up and taking nourishment.”

“Yes, but is he—”

“Your thrrrree minutes is up,” said a harsh voice. “Do you want another thrrrree minutes?” And its owner promptly cut them off before either could answer her.

Laura returned to Half Moon Street with feelings which she made no attempt to analyse.

Mr. Priestley also did not stop to analyse his feelings when Laura returned to him. There was no need. His face one large beam, he welcomed her as if she had been away half a year instead of half an hour. It is to be feared that Mr. Priestley had not been quite as reassured as he should have been by Laura’s solemn word.

Having taken off her hat and admired the delightfully cosy little room prepared for her, in which a fire was already burning, Laura returned to the study, and insisted upon being initiated into her secretarial duties that very minute, brushing aside Mr. Priestley’s earnest attempts to establish a conscience which would not allow him even to think of work on a Sunday, much less practise it. Mr. Priestley, who had not the faintest idea what to do with a secretary or how on earth to keep her employed for more than ten minutes in the day, had considerable difficulty in concealing the fact that a secretary who knew no Latin or Greek was just about as much use to him personally as the clothes she was going to buy with his money. Laura, who read each thought as it flitted through his mind, listened demurely to his halting sentences and continued to think what a perfect dear he was.

With an air of great importance the perfect dear finally gave her some rough notes he had made ten years before (and never thought of since) upon certain obscure passages in Juvenal, to be put into shipshape form the next morning. Then, with the comfortable feeling of duty done and pleasure coming, he settled down in a chair by the fire for a companionable chat till dinner.

That meal safely over (and an admirable affair it was; Barker had seen to that, though distinctly disappointed that no champagne was drunk with it to mark the occasion fittingly), they went back to the library, and there Mr. Priestley had a very bright idea indeed. This dear girl was likely to be on his hands for some time; why not make that period of real solid value to her, and at the same time increase her own value to himself? Why not, in short, teach her a little Latin? He pottered happily off to see if he could unearth the old Kennedy’s grammar of his schooldays.

To Laura’s considerable regret, he succeeded.

To Barker, lurking tactfully in his own fastness and picturing lurid scenes in progress in the study with all the strength of his somewhat one-sided imagination, the truth regarding the next two hours would have been a poignant disappointment; there is very little luridness in the conjugation of mensa. Laura spent a dull evening.

At half-past ten, feeling that she had had enough Latin to last her for several years, she announced her intention of going to bed, resisting all Mr. Priestley’s efforts to dissuade her.

“I’m very tired,” she said, not without truth, holding out a slim hand. “Good-night, Uncle Matthew.”

“Good-night, then Niece Laura,” beamed Mr. Priestley, taking the hand and forgetting apparently to release it again.

Laura could hardly go to bed without her hand; she lingered. They smiled at each other.

“Oh, well,” thought Laura, “why not? He deserves something, the funny old dear, and he does seem to enjoy it so.” She held up her cheek. “Good-night, dear, kind Uncle Matthew,” she said softly.

“God bless my soul!” observed Mr. Priestley, discovering suddenly that there are advantages in being an uncle after all.

“Besides, it isn’t the first time,” continued Laura’s thoughts as she went off to her bed and a pair of Mr. Priestley’s pyjamas; “and he certainly had that kissing look in his eye. Oh, well, I owe him that much, I suppose.” But not for one moment did she admit that the very simple reason why she had held up her face was that, for the first time in her life, she actually wanted to be kissed. A simple reason is so very dull, of course, when there is a complicated one to take its place.

Mr. Priestley rang for his night-cap and settled himself in his chair again feeling exactly ten years younger than when he had last performed the same action forty-eight hours ago. If Laura let him kiss her good-night, she ought by all logic to let him kiss her good-morning. If he kissed her once each night and once each morning, and she stayed in his rooms say, two months—no, three months at least for safety, then he could look forward to … thirty multiplied by three multiplied by two…. His thoughts ran happily on; very happily.

Mr. Priestley was a man of resilient disposition. Living as he had so far out of the everyday world, the things of the world passed him by without his very much noticing them. One day out in the world there might be a miners’ strike, but the next day Mr. Priestley had forgotten all about it; one day there would be a railway disaster most distressing at the moment of reading, the next there had never been a railway disaster at all; one night out in the big world Mr. Priestley might shoot a blackguard, the next his action had receded into a bad dream. Even the handcuff, last tangible link with that extraordinary affair, had been miraculously removed by Barker, to whom all things seemed possible. Mr. Priestley had reached the stage of having to pinch himself before he could realise that the thing had really happened. It is true that Laura remained, one last link and, presumably, a tangible one, especially when being bidden good-night. But Laura was a different affair altogether. Sipping his hot toddy, Mr. Priestley meditated not without awe how very different Laura was—different from everything and every one there had ever been before in the history of the world. Indubitably Laura was a different affair.

When he went to bed thirty minutes later, to sleep like a log all night, Mr. Priestley was still pondering reverently upon the really quite astonishing difference of Laura.

He had cause for further reflection the next morning, for that young woman, although greeting him with cheerful nieceishness at the breakfast-table, did not offer even a hand by way of token; indeed, she was at some pains to avoid her host’s distinctly pleading eye. During the meal Mr. Priestley found rueful employment in cutting down his arithmetical calculations by exactly one-half.

For an hour afterwards in the study Laura wrestled nobly with the obscurities of Juvenal. The time did not pass unpleasantly. She had a translation given her, and in the intervals of wrestling was able to discover some quite interesting reading therein. Mr. Priestley, pretending to scan his morning paper by the fire, glanced at her contentedly from time to time. This was a good idea of his, secretarial employment; working away at Juvenal, the poor girl would quite imagine that she was performing her share of a two-sided bargain; it would never occur to her now to consider herself an object of charity, with the inevitable resentment that a high-spirited girl naturally would feel in such circumstances. Yes, a really brilliant idea. Mr. Priestley turned to his Daily Courier for the forty-seventh time.

The Sunday Courier and The Daily Courier were as brothers having one father, Lord Lappinwick. What The Sunday Courier said on Sunday The Daily Courier said on Monday, and what The Daily Courier said on Saturday The Sunday Courier repeated with admiration on Sunday. The Daily Courier was now busy repeating its brother’s observations of the day before, with added epithets and a few fresh facts. These latter did not amount to much, being merely the brilliant discoveries and deductions of Inspector Cottingham of the day before, and the story of them only confirmed Mr. Priestley’s own theory. They had furnished enough conversation to last throughout breakfast, but, speculation tending to move in an endless circle, were now exhausted. In the meantime Laura held her curiosity as best she could, till twelve o’clock.

An hour before that time she looked up from her work.

“Do you—do you think I might be spared now to go out and do that shopping?” she asked, with charming diffidence.

“God bless my soul, yes!” exclaimed Mr. Priestley, full of remorse. “Do you know, I’d forgotten all about it. Go and get your hat on at once, my dear; you’ve got two hours before lunch.”

Laura went.

“Here’s the hundred pounds,” said Mr. Priestley when she returned, and stuffed a bundle of notes in her hand.

Laura attempted to thank him, but was cut short. “Yes, yes,” he said, much embarrassed. “That’s all right. And—and you’ll be back for lunch.”

Laura smiled at the indifferently concealed anxiety in his voice. “Yes, Uncle Matthew, I’ll be back; or soon after, at any rate. I’m not going to run away. I gave you my word, you know.”

“So you did,” said Mr. Priestley. “So you did. Well, good-bye, my dear girl. Get yourself lots of pretty things.”

“I will, I promise you. Oh, and I’ve had an idea. I’m going to buy a second-hand trunk and have all the things packed in that. Then it will look to Barker as if it was just my luggage turned up, you see. What do you think of that?”

“Excellent!” said the guileless Mr. Priestley with much admiration. “Excellent! Well—er—good-bye, Niece Laura.”

“Good-bye, Uncle Matthew,” demurely said Laura, who was not taking any hints to-day. She went.

Mr. Priestley found plenty to think about for the next fifty minutes.

Then, at ten minutes to twelve, he heard the front door-bell ring, and Barker’s footsteps down the passage a moment later. He wondered idly who had rung. It may be noted that Mr. Priestley did not start guiltily every time a bell rang, nor did he cringe-about the place in constant expectation of a heavy hand on his shoulder. It might have been a mouse he had shot instead of a man for all the guilty starts and cringing that Mr. Priestley performed.

While Mr. Priestley was not starting guiltily, Barker was opening the door. Confronting him on the landing was a tall, slim woman, exquisitely dressed, who smiled at him. The smile was of such peculiar sweetness that Barker broke another life-time’s record and smiled back.

“Is Mr. Priestley in?” asked the lady, amid the shattered fragments of Barker’s record.

“Yes, madam.”

“Is he alone? Alone in the flat, I mean?”

“Yes, madam,” said Barker, concealing any surprise he might have felt under his usual egg-like expression.

“Then I should like to see him, please.”

“Yes, madam. Will you step this way? What name shall I say?”

The visitor smiled at him again, this time in a particularly confidential way. “It doesn’t matter about the name. Just say ‘a lady.’”

“Very good, madam. Will you come in here, please?”

Still somewhat upset by the smile, Barker did a thing he would never have dreamed of doing in normal circumstances and showed the caller straight into Mr. Priestley’ s study. There, regretfully, he left her.

“Good-morning, Mr. Priestley,” said the lady, advancing at once with outstretched hand and apparently quite at home. “You don’t know me, but I think you know Pat Doyle, who is a friend of ours. I am Mrs. Nesbitt.”

“Mrs. Nesbitt!” repeated Mr. Priestley in amazement. He became aware of the outstretched hand in a gray glove and shook it absently. It was a very nice hand, and deserved more attention. “Mrs. Nesbitt! Well, good gracious me.”

“I want to speak to you very privately, Mr. Priestley,” Cynthia smiled again, and at once Mr. Priestley felt he had known her all his life. “Laura isn’t here, is she, by any chance?”

“Miss Merriman?” Mr. Priestley smiled back delightedly. “Oh, do you know her too? Excellent! No, she isn’t here just now. She went out nearly an hour ago, to—er—in fact, she went out. But she’ll be back for lunch, I hope.”

“Miss Merriman?” said Cynthia, puzzled. “I meant Laura Howard.”

Mr. Priestley shook his head. “There’s no Miss Howard here. I don’t even know a Miss Howard. There is a Miss Merriman, Miss Laura Merriman, staying here with me.”

“Staying here?” echoed Cynthia, considerably startled. She devoted one searching look at Mr. Priestley and knew him at once for what he was; then she laid back her head and laughed very heartily. “Oh, Laura!” laughed Cynthia. “Yes, it must be her. Well, it was her own fault and I’m very glad to hear it. It may do her quite a lot of good.”

It was Mr. Priestley’s turn to look mystified. Also he was beginning to feel slightly alarmed. Mrs. Nesbitt’s call could only mean one thing, and that was that his connection with the business at Duffley had come to light. Probably Pat Doyle had asked her to give him a hint of warning. Oh, dear, how exceedingly awkward!

“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he faltered.

Cynthia threw him a compassionate glance. “No, I shouldn’t think you do,” she said warmly. “That’s why I’m here.” She walked swiftly over to the door, and, to Mr. Priestley’s astonishment, turned the key. “I want to talk to you very confidentially, Mr. Priestley. I’ve only got a very few minutes, and whatever happens nobody must see me here. Oh, why aren’t you in the telephone-book? I’ve wasted hours finding out your address.”

“God bless my soul!” said the astonished Mr. Priestley.

Cynthia began to talk.

Out in the passage, hovering warily, Barker heard the key turn in the lock and walked thoughtfully back to the kitchen. “The saucy old kipper!” was Mr. Barker’s summing-up of the situation, after profound cogitation. He repeated his analysis to an empty milk-jug. “The saucy old kipper!” confided Mr. Barker to the milk-jug.

Ten minutes later Cynthia was taking farewell of a staggered Mr. Priestley. “And you’ll be by the Achilles statue at three o’clock?” she said, offering the gray-gloved hand again. “I’ve ever so much more to tell you, but I simply must fly now as she’s been waiting there since twelve for the cloak-room ticket. Think over that idea of mine in the meantime, and see if you can improve on it. And for goodness’ sake don’t let Laura follow you this afternoon. Good-bye, Mr. Priestley.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Nesbitt,” mumbled Mr. Priestley, who had been conversing for the last ten minutes entirely in gasps. “And—and thank you so much.”

“Not a bit. I can only apologise most humbly, as the only member of the conspiracy with perhaps a single grain of sense, that I ever let things go so far; I ought to have put my foot down at the very beginning. And now I must go. Oh, and perhaps you’d better tell your man not to let it out to Laura that I’ve been here this morning.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” muttered the dazed recipient of her confidences, trying to open the door by twisting the handle backwards and forwards. Cynthia gently unlocked it for him.

Mr. Priestley saw her out himself, more or less, and then ambled along the passage to the kitchen.

“Barker,” said Mr. Priestley, eyeing his servitor as blankly as if the latter had actually turned into the breakfast dish he so much resembled. “Barker, kindly say nothing to Miss How—to Miss Lau—to my cousin about the lady who called this morning. Or,” added Mr. Priestley comprehensively, “to any one else.”

“Very good, sir,” agreed Barker without visible emotion.

He waited till Mr. Priestley’s shuffling footsteps had ceased to be audible in the passage. Then he gave vent to his feelings. “Well, I’ll be blowed!” remarked Mr. Barker to the silver spoon he happened to be polishing at the moment. “Running two of ’em at once, unbeknown to each other! Sends one out and has the other in, and vice verse. The giddy old gazebo!” said Mr. Barker to the silver spoon.

Chapter XIII.
Cynthia Begins to Smile

It is a maxim in warfare that he who scorns to use the enemy’s weapons will find himself defeated; unfairly, no doubt, but defeated. In her combat with guile Cynthia had no intention of being defeated. She had therefore delivered to Dora not the whole of Laura’s message but only that part which concerned the packing of the trunk. For the rest, Cynthia remarked airily, she was going up to London the next day herself and could therefore take the trunk with her.

By this simple expedient Cynthia was able to ensure not only Laura’s absence while she put Mr. Priestley out of his misery, but also the further meeting for the afternoon. Cynthia knew perfectly well what she was going to do at this second interview; she was going to talk to Mr. Priestley, and then she was going to smile at him—and, if necessary, go on smiling till dusk.

Had Cynthia but known it, there was reason for an added millimetre or two to her smile. It would have amused her a good deal to know that, while the two chief conspirators were chuckling over their crack-brained preparations for the confounding of Reginald Foster, Esq., an almost equally clever mind was hard at work trying to extract the foundation from the whole erection and topple it down upon the heads of its own authors.

To take another maxim from The Child’s Guide to Warfare, it is a fatal mistake to underestimate one’s opponent. Guy and Mr. Doyle had not the faintest suspicion that they had not hoodwinked the friendly Chief Constable just as successfully as that fatherly terror of village murderers, Inspector Cottingham. Having ascertained that Mr. Foster had spent Saturday evening at home and had therefore no alibi beyond the word of his wife, they had proceeded to plant his note-paper and carve George’s boots with the utmost enjoyment and confidence. For, as to careful attention to detail, had they not previously muffled their faces in the best shilling-shocker manner and actually distributed real gent’s blood about the place, with the most gratifying results? What could any Chief Constable want more?

After a thoroughly satisfactory day, therefore, the two families prepared to spend Sunday evening in their own respective houses. George would have strolled across to Dell Cottage, had he not thought that he did not wish to see very much more of Cynthia that day; for, attempting to join the other two in the drawing-room after dinner, he was promptly ejected. “For,” as Mr. Doyle pointed out with some feeling, “much though I like and esteem you, George, there are times when I like and esteem you better at a distance, and this is one of them. Go out into the garden, George, and hang yourself on a bush; that’s the proper place for gooseberries.”

“You needn’t stay, really, George,” Dora added earnestly. “I’ve quite grown-up now, you know. And if the man’s intentions become too dishonourable, I can always scream for you, can’t I?”

George fled, growling. George was one of those absurdly out-of-date people who prefer their women-kind to leave unsaid those things that ought not to be said. George was ridiculous.

It was fortunate that George took his leisure while he might. Apart from the bother of an awkward journey to a place called Manstead the next morning to retrieve his car in time to drive Dora and Mr. Doyle up to London in it for the opening of the new Jollity revue (the railway station would certainly be watched, George had had it carefully impressed upon him), there was yet another blow coming. It came at about half-past nine.

There was a ring at the front door, and, unlike Mr. Priestley, George started guiltily. George was really not enjoying life very much in these days. Knowing his sister, he heaved himself reluctantly out of his chair and went to answer the ring.

“Hullo, George,” said Guy’s voice. “Here’s a couple of visitors to see you, Monica and Alan. Cynthia has turned us out of the house. Can you entertain us?”

“Oh, yes,” said the unhappy George. “Oh, rather.”

“Hullo, George,” said Monica brightly.

“Hullo,” said George with a ghastly smile. “Er—hullo, Alan.”

“Hullo,” said Alan, a somewhat stout young man of fourteen.

The conversation then lapsed.

“Do you entertain us here, George?” Monica asked with interest. “If so, bring the piano out, too, and we’ll make an evening of it.”

“Oh, sorry,” George mumbled, and stood aside to let these most unwelcome visitors enter. He closed the front door softly upon all hope and led the way to the drawing-room.

The visitors stood upon the threshold of the drawing-room and looked inside with interest. George was improving as an entertainer, they felt. Even George forgot his sorrow for the moment too. For it appeared that Dora and her fiancé had not heard the door-bell. Indeed, unless they were trying to show off, it was quite evident that they had not.

It seemed a pity to spoil such an idyllic scene, but Alan Spence did so. He spoilt it with a guffaw. Alan’s guffaw might have been guaranteed to spoil any idyllic scene. It was not a taking guffaw.

“Oh-oh-ah-hoo!” guffawed Alan.

Dora leapt off that portion of Mr. Doyle on which she was reclining as if she had suddenly discovered that it was not her fiancé at all, but a very large hornet. “George, you ass!” she cried, going so red that it seemed as if she must set fire to her frock.

“George, you goop!” exclaimed Mr. Doyle, no less fiery.

“George, you old idiot!” cackled Guy.

“George, you scream!” shrieked Monica, quite untruthfully.

Alan contented himself with merely guffawing at George.

George sighed. Whatever happened, everybody seemed to blame him. Whatever he did was always wrong. Life was a bleak business. Then he looked at Dora and life did not seem quite so bleak after all. He had never seen either of his sisters embarrassed before. It was a sight which interested George a good deal.

“Sorry if we were tactless, Dawks,” said Guy, “but it really wasn’t our fault, you know.”

“Of course it wasn’t. It was George’s. It always is.”

“May we come in now, or would you rather we didn’t?”

“Guy,” said Dora with feeling, “if you say another single word on that subject, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“May my tongue be cut out,” said Guy, and introduced the new-comers. While George carefully avoided every one’s eye, they sorted themselves into seats.

“We were to have come on Tuesday,” Monica announced, “but when we saw The Sunday Courier this morning, of course we couldn’t wait till then. We just flew for the first train we could get.”

“What rot, Monica,” observed her brother, with proper scorn for this feminine hyperbole. “We could have got here hours ago,” he informed the company, “if she hadn’t wasted half the day packing a lot of rotten clothes.”

“So now tell us all about it,” Monica continued serenely. “Cynthia wouldn’t say a single word; can’t imagine why. She said if we wanted to talk about it, we’d got to come over here, because two more words on it to-day would send her raving mad.”

“Cinders always was a bit comic,” agreed Alan with brotherly candour.

Guy crossed his legs and slid down in his chair. “Go on, Doyle,” he said. “You’re the official historian.”

“The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?” inquired Doyle cautiously.

“Heaven forbid!” said Guy, and winked gently.

“I say,” remarked Alan more respectfully, “are you that chap Doyle, who wrote about it in the Sunday Courier?”

“I am that chap Doyle,” agreed Mr. Doyle with grave dignity.

He proceeded to retail a second version of his report to The Courier, adding the chief points of the one he had already telephoned through for the next morning’s issue.

While he talked George found himself at liberty to study Monica without fear of being observed. Hitherto he had consciously avoided looking at her; now that he did so he could hardly believe that this was the same person, who, little more than two years ago, had caused him to dance before the wedding-guests. She looked completely different. The thick plaits which had been the cause of all the merriment had disappeared and her hair, fair like her sister’s, was cut short about her small head. George was not an admirer of cropped heads on women’s shoulders, but even he could not but admit that Monica’s really didn’t look half bad, considering.

Her features and figure seemed to have altered as much as her hair. The lean, disjointed look of sixteen had given place to nineteen’s curves of incipient womanhood; the curves were not pronounced but they were curves. George liked curves. Her face was curiously like Cynthia’s and curiously unlike. She had her sister’s wide forehead and straight nose, and the corners of her lips were touched with the same sense of humour, but there was an elfin look about her that was quite different from Cynthia’s air of rather amused repose. Looking more closely still, George could see that, after all, this was the person who had brought him low with a hose-pipe, but her methods, he felt, had probably developed with her curves. She would use subtler means now, but she would no doubt attain the same results. George shivered slightly.

“Footprints!” Alan’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Oo!”?

“Did the girl leave footprints, too?” Monica asked eagerly, with her sex’s immediate conversion of the general into the personal. Just over two years ago she would also have said only: “Footprints! Oo!”

Guy and Mr. Doyle exchanged glances. The glances said quite plainly: “I think we shall be able to find use for this young man.”

The talk proceeded.

In due course George rose, went out of the room, returned with drinks and dispensed them. Still the talk went on. At last Guy suggested that it was time to make a move. George did not contradict him. George was a courteous host, but there are limits. Hose-pipes are one, frogs another.

“What are you doing to-morrow, George?” Guy asked as he rose.

“Got to go over to Manstead to fetch the car,” said George, not quite so dolefully. There had been a ring in Guy’s question, and George was not sorry to have a sound excuse against whatever the ring might portend. “It’s between thirty and forty miles from here. Take me most of the morning.”

“Oh, are you going to drive forty miles to-morrow morning?” asked Monica instantly. “Oh, George, how gorgeous! You’ll take me with you, won’t you?”

“Um!” gulped George. “Er—yes, oh, yes. Er—rather. If—if you’re sure you’d really like to come. It’ll be a beastly journey, you know,” he added hopefully.

“Thanks awfully,” said Monica, promptly extinguishing the hope. “I’d love it.”

George contemplated his feet with a moody air. He had, he now realised, been quite mistaken about that trip to Manstead; he hadn’t disliked the thought of it at all, he had actually been looking forward to it intensely. It had promised a whole morning’s peace, away from everything that was making life so bleak at present. Now life was apparently to be bleaker still. Probably Monica would fill the petrol-tank up with water and the radiator with petrol, or stick pins into the tyres, or scratch her initials on the paint; at the very least she would wilfully misdirect him on the road, in order to get a sixty-mile joy-ride instead of a thirty-five. He meditated dismally.

Doyle had drawn Guy aside. “What about that youth for the opening of the Inspector’s eyes?” he said in a low voice.

“Just what I’d thought of, my dear fellow. Couldn’t be better. Come over as soon as you like after breakfast.”

“Do these two know about keeping Dora dark, so to speak?”

“By Jove, no! I’d forgotten all about it. As we’re keeping them in the dark ourselves, what reason can we give?”

“Leave it to me,” adjured Mr. Doyle, thinking rapidly. He took Guy’s arm and drew him back to the little group by the door.

“By the way, Nesbitt,” said Mr. Doyle loudly, “I wish you’d do me a favour. Please don’t tell anybody about Dora being here this week-end. She particularly doesn’t want her name mentioned in connection with this affair, as it would be so bad for her at the theatre. The management are very much down on any of the girls getting mixed up in murder mysteries; they think it’s bad for business. If it leaked out, Dora would probably get the sack.”

“Of course, my dear chap,” said Guy gravely. “I quite understand. Nobody else knows?”

“So far, no. Not even the police. Particularly not the police, I should say. And we’re going to smuggle her up to London to-morrow in time for the show. Thanks so much, Nesbitt, thanks so much.”

Alan was staring at Dora with round eyes. “I say,” he said, in tones to match them, “you’re not on the stage, are you?”

“I am,” Dora smiled, “yes.”

“Coo! What are you in?”

“Well, as there’s no Shakespeare season on at the moment, I’ve been keeping my hand in up to a few weeks ago in ‘Thumbs Up!’ at the Jollity.”

“And legs, dearest,” murmured Mr. Doyle sotto voce. “Be honest.”

“I say, were you really? I saw that last hols. Topping show!” Mr. Spence continued to stare with round eyes. His manner had changed considerably. In place of his former air of confident and slightly contemptuous assurance he now wore one of respect verging almost upon diffidence.

George looked at his sister with envy. There would clearly be no frogs in her bed.

“What part did you play?” asked Monica, who seemed to be sharing something of her brother’s feelings. She spoke humbly, as a disciple addressing his master or a mate his plumber.

Dora laughed. “Well, not the lead exactly. I’m in the chorus.”

“Coo!” observed Alan. “Are you a chorus-girl?”

“I suppose I must be,” Dora admitted. “Am I?” she appealed to her fiancé.

“Certainly you are. That’s why I’m marrying you. Clever men in the best novels are always infatuated by chorus-girls.”

“Don’t you love wearing all those beautiful costumes?” said Monica soulfully.

“Dora has a very good opinion of her figure, yes,” remarked Mr. Doyle. “So have I, dear,” he added hastily, catching a glint in his lady’s eye. “And I think it’s very sporting of you to have joined the——”

“That’ll do, Pat. That’s quite enough from you.”

Alan turned to George as one man of the world to another. “I say, you were pulling my leg, weren’t you? She’s not really your sister?” Old ideas die hard in the young.

The resulting hilarity took them out into the hall.

“Well, good-night, George,” said Guy, stepping out into the night.

“Good-night,” said George.

“Good-night, George,” said Monica. “Till to-morrow.”

“Till to-morrow,” echoed George dully, and walked back to the drawing-room where he had left the whisky decanter. The drawing-room door was locked.

“——” said George with emphasis, and went to bed.

Outside in the laurel bushes a dapper figure drew his thick overcoat about him and shivered in the cold night air. “Well, I’ll be hanged if I can make out who’s in it!” muttered the dapper figure, and also went home to bed.

And that, so far as we are concerned, was the end of Sunday. The drawing-room door, it is of no interest to record, remained locked until Monday. Until twenty minutes past Monday, to be precise.

George’s brain, it must be allowed (and George himself would have been the first to allow it) was not a subtle organ. It worked, much the same as a donkey-engine works; but there is little finesse about a donkey engine. During the early hours of the night George’s brain turned out for him a large number of straightforward schemes for arriving at Manstead the next morning without a passenger; but they were crude. George quite recognised that. The most ingenious was that he should start at six o’clock, before his passenger should so much as have opened an eyelid. Reluctantly George was compelled to reject even this. He had given his word, and unless a plan presented itself to involve the inevitable breaking of this inconvenient tie, and consistently with the ways of perfect gentility as George understood them, he must keep it. It is almost superfluous to add that no plan did present itself.

Perhaps Monica had caught something of the notable lack of warmth in George’s voice the previous evening. In any case, she was evidently leaving nothing to chance. A forty-mile motor trip was an event in Monica’s life, and Monica liked her life to be eventful. At half-past nine she presented herself on George’s front-doorstep, hatted, fur-coated and gauntlet-gloved, the complete motorist. George greeted her with ghastly geniality.

An impartial spectator, observing with pain George’s laboured attempts to appear hearty, would have said that George was hard to please. Monica looked the sort of passenger whom any right-minded, car-possessing bachelor would go miles out of his way to collect. Her pretty, eager face flushed with excitement, her tongue prattling merrily, and her trim, fur-encased figure very nearly jumping with pleasure, what better company could such a right-minded man desire? George was evidently not right-minded. His face, as he walked uneasily at Monica’s side towards the station, bore an expression of mingled apprehension and gloom; he looked as if he strongly suspected Monica of having a hose-pipe concealed somewhere about her person. George need not have bothered. Monica had few things concealed about her person, and certainly not a hose-pipe. A young woman with any pretence to fashion seldom wears a hose-pipe in these days.

She began to talk very earnestly about Dora. Monica, it appeared, had long cherished the conviction that she, too, had a call to the stage. She had taken part occasionally in local amateur theatricals at home, and though that was of course nothing to go by, people really had said quite decent things. Not that she wanted to swank or anything like that, but she did somehow feel she could act. Did George think that Dora would be too bored to give her some advice? Did Dora know any managers? Had Dora enough influence to get one of them to give Monica a trial? Did George think Dora would let Monica come and see her in London? Was it possible to see Dora at the theatre? Could Dora, did George think, let Monica have a peep behind the scenes—just a tiny peep? What did George think about this, about that, and about the other?

George began to brighten. Here was somebody who actually wanted to know his opinion. Very few people ever wanted to know George’s opinion. It was a pleasant novelty. Monica had improved. In the old days she had shown no signs of interest in George’s opinion. If she had consulted George as to his candid opinion, he would have informed her that on the whole he did not think he much wanted to dance before the wedding-guests; but she had done nothing of the sort. Now, she seemed to be hanging on his words. By Jove, yes; Monica had improved. George forgot all about hose-pipes and became very nearly animated.

No, George’s brain was not a subtle organ. It never occurred to him for a moment that his sudden importance was merely owing to the fact that he was his sister’s brother. He accepted Monica’s interest in his opinion as a tribute to his own worth, and as he received very few tributes of that nature was correspondingly delighted. Somebody once said something about ignorance and wisdom, turning a neat phrase upon the advisability in certain cases of the one and the drawbacks attendant upon the other. He might have applied his aphorism to George that morning. In his folly George expanded like a flower in the sun, and looked back with incredulous astonishment to the remote time when he had brooded sorrowfully upon radiators and petrol-tanks in connection with this extraordinarily nice young person.

A very pleasant morning was spent.

George and Monica were not the only two people to spend a pleasant morning. Cynthia did also in her way, and Mr. Doyle and Guy too, were not ill-pleased with it, though their enjoyment was not wholly unmixed. It was one thing to realise the use to them of Alan’s presence; it was another to obtain a monopoly of it.

For Alan was sorely torn. On the one hand was a perfectly topping murder mystery, right on the premises, which, of course, demanded the most breathless and undivided attention; on the other, within only a few yards was a real genuine chorus-girl, who was going away that same afternoon; and Alan was naturally a good deal interested in chorus-girls, as befitted a young man of fourteen.

There is a ring about the word “chorus-girl.” One wonders whether it will ever quite outlive its naughty Victorian associations. The chorus-girl of to-day is more respectable than a churchwarden, more straight than a straight line (though having more breadth to her length; even to-day, one gathers, some chorus-girls are tolerably broad-minded), more refined than Grade “A” petrol—or so we are earnestly given to understand by those who ought to know. Yet still in clubs and places where men gather, the bare mention of the word is enough to provoke the knowing wink and the cunning dig in the ribs. And where the clubs wink the public schools guffaw; there is no place where tradition is so strong as a public school. It gave Alan a pleasurable feeling of doggishness just to enter the room where Dora was sedately reading a magazine; to sit on the same couch with her was sheer daredevilry.

Here he was, yes, he Alan Spence, alone in a room with a chorus girl, exchanging light badinage, keeping his wicked end up as well as a grown man! But for the unfortunate absence of champagne and oysters (the inevitable concomitant of all genuine chorus-girls, as any Victorian novelist will tell you) the scene was as abandoned as you like. Alan was looking forward quite intensely to a number of casual conversations next term which would begin; “Yes, a chorus-girl I know, told me….” Or, “Did you see Thumbs Up! last hols? I knew one of the chorus-girls in it. Quite a decent kid….” Or, “Chorus-girls don’t always dye their hair, you know. One of the girls in Thumbs Up!—Dora, her name is; frightfully decent sort—told me that …” That Dora really was George’s sister, Alan could still hardly bring himself to believe; but he was quite sure he knew why her presence was being kept so dark. (Yes, madam, public schools are dreadful places, aren’t they? I certainly shouldn’t send your boy to one.)

Inspector Cottingham did not put in an appearance till nearly half-past eleven, so that the two conspirators were not unduly pressed for time. Their idea was a simple one. They wished Alan to make the discovery for himself that the undisputed footprint of Mr. Reginald Foster in the flower-bed bore a striking likeness to certain newly manufactured prints on the river bank, and to draw the obvious conclusion. This conclusion they were then prepared to scoff at and deride, with the result that Alan, seeking a more sympathetic audience for the news with which he ought to be bursting, would have recourse to the Inspector. The Inspector was then hopefully expected to put three and two together, and make it four. There is nothing so honest as honesty, and in this means Guy and Mr. Doyle saw a way of causing their new clues to be officially swallowed with no possible suspicions as to their administration.

Up to a point matters turned out as they intended. Alan was conveyed into the garden immediately after breakfast, as agog as Guy could have hoped, and shown Mr. Foster’s footprint; thence he was led to the river bank and shown the other footprints. Unfortunately, however, he failed to notice any connecting link. He was impressed, even thrilled, but he displayed no brightness of uptake. Guy left him for a moment to confer with Mr. Doyle, who was strolling through the dividing gate between the gardens to join them; when they looked round, the lad was gone.

It took them a quarter of an hour to run him to earth, in George’s drawing-room. Then they led him back and repeated the process. It was like training a dog to find tennis-balls; the dog is willing enough to gaze for a space into the shrubbery, but he hasn’t the faintest idea what he is expected to find inside it. Guy found himself in an even worse position than that of the dog’s master, for he was precluded from giving an intimation that there was anything to be found at all. Having gazed respectfully at the footprints a second time, Alan announced that they certainly were top-hole and took himself back to the drawing-room and daredevilry.

Mr. Doyle retrieved him five minutes later with a resigned expression and led him back once more. This time the two did not leave things quite so much to chance. They pointed out to each other with bland surprise that Mr. Foster must have had a tear in the soles of one of his boots; they remarked that it might be quite interesting to look around for other such footprints with a tear in one of the soles; they obtusely ignored a string of such prints leading from the flower-bed towards the library, and another leading from the latter to the bank. Then they observed loudly that they were going in for a short time to have a smoke in George’s drawing-room in the absence of Dora, who was upstairs making her bed, her bed, upstairs making her bed! They went, and through the curtains of the window peeped out upon their victim.

Fixity of purpose does occasionally meet with its reward. Alan having absorbed the information that Dora was no longer on view, began to walk aimlessly about, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ground. They saw him stop suddenly and stoop. He progressed slowly in a bent position. He crawled like a crab towards the library windows, and thence to the bank. He ran swiftly across the garden and through the separating gate. Guy and Mr. Doyle, timing things to a nicety, met him half-way across George’s lawn.

“I say,” said Alan, “I’ve made the hell of a discovery!”

“Oh?” said Guy.

“Really?” said Mr. Doyle. “But talking of emigration, Nesbitt, I do think that the Government——”

“Listen, you chaps! You know what you were saying about footprints just now? Well, dashed if I haven’t——”

“Footprints?” said Guy vaguely. “Were we?”

“Good Lord, yes; you know you were. About that chap Foster having a bit out of one of his boots. You know. Well, I’ve spotted tons of other prints just the same. Do you know what I think, Guy? I think Foster’s one of ’em!”

“One of whom, Alan?” Guy asked in maddeningly tolerant tones.

“The gang, of course. Stands to reason. Come and have a squint. On the bank, his footprints are, up to the library, all round. I——”

“Is Alan often taken like this, Guy?” asked Mr. Doyle rudely.

“Foster!” Guy laughed in a superior way. “Come, Alan, come. You’ll be saying he’s the Man with the Broken Nose next.”

“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised if he was,” retorted Alan defiantly. “You needn’t laugh. He’s mixed up with ’em all right. Bet you anything you like. I should tell the police if I were you.”

“The police!” crowed Mr. Doyle, and staggered as if his mirth were incapable of human control.

“The police!” echoed Guy, and staggered too.

Alan flushed. “All right. You see! If you won’t tell ’em, I will. Yes, you can laugh if you like, but you’ll jolly soon find I’m right. Huh! Fancy having a clue like that under your noses and never spotting it. Huh!” And with considerable dignity Alan stalked, so well as a slightly stout youth may stalk, towards the road.

“Go and ask Mr. Foster if he’s ever broken his nose, Alan,” Mr. Doyle called after him derisively.

“All right, blast you, I will!” Master Spence called back.

Doyle caught Guy’s arm. “Look, there’s the Colonel and Cottingham coming down the road. Nesbitt, I think this is where we retire.”

They did not retire at once, however. They waited till the three actors on their stage met and stopped. The words came faintly to them: “I say, are you the Inspector? I read about you in the Sunday Courier. I’m Mrs. Nesbitt’s brother. I say, were you going to have a look at the scene of the crime? I say, have you noticed something jolly important about those footprints? I have. I’ll tell you if you like. I told my brother-in-law, but he laughed. It’s jolly well nothing to laugh about. I say, do you know if that chap Foster’s ever broken his nose?”

The two in the garden began to stroll towards George’s house.

“He might have been coached for the part,” observed Mr. Doyle with some awe.

“He wouldn’t have done it as well if he had been,” murmured Guy. “Doyle, this is all very pleasant and interesting, isn’t it?”

They went in to warn Dora that policemen were about. She was not there.

To tell the truth, Dora had found herself, except for short minutes during the last thirty-six hours, frankly bored. In addition she was not altogether satisfied with the part she had played in the comedy; it was all right, so far as it went, but it had not gone far enough. She thought she saw a way of combining amusement with a little helpful spadework. Unnoticed, she had slipped out of the house and gone off to combine them.

Chapter XIV.
Interesting Scene in a Tool-Shed

Reginald Foster was surveying his garden. Every morning, when it was fine, Reginald Foster surveyed his garden, and both of them felt the better for it; Mr. Foster, because the garden, which was a large one, stood for his success in life and Mr. Foster liked surveying his successes; the garden, because surely nothing could come under Mr. Foster’s benignant survey and not feel the better for it. Mr. Foster strolled slowly round the neat paths, his podgy hands clasped behind his back, and continued to survey benignly.

From a window at the back of the fat red house behind him Mrs. Foster was also doing a little surveying. She was a tepid, pale-haired little woman, and she knitted a good deal, persistently and quite unnecessarily. She was not one of Mr. Foster’s successes.

It was not that Mrs. Foster was not patient, for she was; it was not that she had not made Mr. Foster a good wife, for she had begun to live with him nearly thirty years ago and was still doing so, nor had she yet ever committed suicide; she even endured his talk without screaming violently or running for the nearest razor. And yet she was not a success. She had not worn very well, it is true, but that was not enough to justify these harsh words; her once pretty hair was now lankly nondescript, her face a little flaccid, and her eyes very weary and resigned. She looked, in fact, not unlike a disillusioned mouse; but even the most disillusioned of mice will show signs of emotion before cheese or cats. Mrs. Foster never showed signs of any emotion at all.

Mr. Foster was only too well aware that his Agatha was not one of his successes, and it distressed him very much. He could not understand it. Here they were, risen from a little house in Balham to something very like a mansion in the country, with Mr. Foster retired from business into the position of rustic gentleman, and Agatha seemed no more excited about it than she had been over the burnt sausages that morning at breakfast. And the rise was really all the more remarkable when one reflected that the Fosters ought never to have been in Balham at all, for it is much easier to rise out of one’s real class than into it. Mr. Foster had been at one of the minor public schools, and Agatha was actually related to a Duke. The connection between the families was not a very recent one perhaps, nor a very close one, but it was quite indisputable. A stranger seldom had converse with Mr. Foster very long before finding these two facts insinuated into his knowledge.

And yet Agatha was not a success. It really was very remarkable. Mr. Foster never troubled to speculate about his wife’s views on this disappointing subject, because really, what would be the use? One did not want to think unkindly of Agatha, but one might just as well speculate about the views of a piece of dough as the cook puts it into the oven. Mr. Foster was in the habit of putting it more tactfully in his own mind by reflecting that Mrs. Foster simply never happened to hold views.

As is so often the case with our nearest, if not necessarily our dearest, Mr. Foster was not quite correct in this opinion. As she stood at her bedroom window and watched the centre of her universe inspecting his spring greens with an encouraging eye, Mrs. Foster was holding a quite definite view. She was wishing with singular intensity that the ground would open and swallow her husband up; then, and then only so far as she could see, would she be free from the necessity of going into Abingchester in the big closed car when she had a splitting headache, listening to the cook’s insolence on the subject of burnt sausages, and doing all the other hundred and one other repellent things which the living presence of the cabbage-gazer in the garden imposed upon her. But above all she would never, never have to listen to him talk again.

With a faint sigh she turned away from the window. The ground gave no sign of incipient aperture; it never did. She began to put on her aching head the new hat Mr. Foster had chosen for her last week (Mr. Foster always chose his wife’s hats) and which she loathed with singular intensity.

If a small fairy in whose veracity he could repose no doubt, had appeared before Mr. Foster among his cabbages at that moment and remarked: “Good morning, Mr. Foster. Do you know that your wife hates you with a degree of detestation quite unparalleled in the annals of Duffley? She does, you know. I thought you might be interested to hear it. Good-morning,” he would, after the initial shock was over, have been filled with complete bewilderment.

Why, in the name of Heaven? Why should she? Hadn’t he always been kindness itself to her? And not only kindness but, far more important, patience? Her headache, for instance. He had been most sympathetic about that at breakfast, in spite of the sausages. Naturally he had told her that it doesn’t do to make too much of a fuss about these things, for otherwise the things get bigger than the person; and that really one ought not to refuse to go into Abingchester just on account of a little headache, like an unbalanced schoolgirl. But the point was that he had said it kindly. He had not even hinted for a moment at his opinion that Agatha took trifles just a little bit too seriously, not for a moment. And that again in spite of the sausages. No, the whole thing would have been completely beyond him.

It was very fortunate that no little busybody of a fairy put in an appearance after all.

Ignorant of his fortunate escape, Mr. Foster pulled out his large gold watch. He frowned. Well past eleven. He had better be going indoors and seeing that Agatha was … A low whistle from the fence behind him caused him to turn about sharply.

Mr. Foster’s fat red house stood at a corner of the main road, where a somewhat insignificant turning led to a remote countryside and a village two miles away. It followed that Mr. Foster’s garden ran along the side of this insignificant turning, the boundary between importance and insignificance being marked with a fence. Over the top of this fence a girl’s face was now regarding Mr. Foster with every sign of anxiety.

“Good gracious!” said Mr. Foster, and hurried towards it. Pretty faces hanging anxiously over his fence were something new in Mr. Foster’s experience. Large yokel faces, decorated with foolish grins, he had seen before and with pain, but not pretty ones that whistled. He proceeded to investigate.

“Where can I get in?” cried the owner of the face, in tones of unmistakable agitation. “They’re after me. They’re—oh, isn’t there a gate or something? Quickly, please!”

“There is a gate,” admitted the perplexed Mr. Foster. “But——”

“Then open it! Don’t you understand? It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Is it?” asked Mr. Foster wonderingly. “Are you ill?”

“No, no! Don’t you recognise me? It was I who spoke to you in the garden the night before last; who told you——”

“Good Heavens!” Mr. Foster gasped. “So it is. I thought you seemed very familiar. I mean, your voice sounded familiar. But——”

“Open the gate!” said the girl tersely.

Mr. Foster ran along the fence and did so. The girl tumbled through and stood for a moment, panting, one hand to her heart.

“Safe!” she muttered. “Oh, thank God! But quick—hide me! They’ll be here any minute.”

“The deuce they will!” squeaked Mr. Foster.

His little fat legs twinkled along the path towards a tool-shed that stood in the angle of the fence at the bottom of the garden. He pulled the door open and shut it behind them.

“Good gracious!” said Mr. Foster, and mopped his brow.

“Oh, thank you,” murmured the girl, with a little sob.

They gazed at one another.

“Who are after you?” panted Mr. Foster. “The—the Man with the Broken Nose?”

“Yes, and the whole gang with him,” replied Dora, who did not believe in doing things by halves. For sisters, Dora and Laura had much in common.

“Whew!” said Mr. Foster, thrilled to the core. “How many of them?”

“Seventeen! Oh, what shall I do—what shall I do?”

Mr. Foster possessed himself of one of her hands and began to pat it. Mr. Foster was the sort of person who does pat attractive young women. “I don’t think they’ll bother you here,” he said, swelling slightly. “You just leave things to me, my dear. I’ll look after you. What have you done, then? Run away?”

“Yes, I simply couldn’t stand it any longer.” Dora made use of a life-like shudder to withdraw her hand. “The constant murders! Oh, it was terrible. They do get on your nerves after a time, you know, murders do. Especially when one is only a woman.” She contrived to look extremely helpless and appealing.

“Yes, yes,” soothed Mr. Foster. “Quite, quite. Well, I’m glad you’ve got away, I must say. I thought at the time you had no business to be mixed up with that sort of thing. Far too pretty and charming, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”

“Oh, Mr. Foster,” simpered his companion.

Mr. Foster swelled a little further. “That’s all right, then. Now, you stay here, my dear, all snug and safe, and I’ll run along and telephone to the police; and then——”

“The police? But why?”

“To let them know you’re here. Don’t you realise that you’re a most valuable witness? With your evidence we ought to be able to lay these scoundrels by the heels.”

“No, that’s quite impossible. I may be a valuable witness, but I’d be a still more valuable capture. Don’t you understand that the police are after me, just as much as the rest of the gang? I’m—I’m wanted on scores of charges. That was only one murder I committed; there are ever so many others. If you tell the police I’m here, you put a rope round my neck, Mr. Foster, as sure as you’re standing on a rake.”

Mr. Foster moved automatically off the rake. His eyes were fixed on his companion’s face in an expression in which horror and delight struggled for supremacy. “Did you say that—that you murd—killed that man the other night?” he articulated.

Dora hung her head. “Yes,” she whispered.

A faint gasp emanated from Mr. Foster.

Dora raised her face somewhat wildly. “But it wasn’t my fault! Don’t think that. I was forced into it. They had a hold over me—a terrible hold. It was something to do with—with my mother. Oh, Mr. Foster, there is nothing a girl won’t do for her mother. I had to do as they wished. I had to carry out their assassinations for them, or see my mother reduced to penury and disgrace. I couldn’t face it! I—I gave way. Was it very wrong of me?”

“It—well, you see, I don’t know the circumstances,” stammered Mr. Foster, for once nonplussed.

“It was only to pull a little trigger,” pleaded the girl. “That’s all I had to do.”

“But that’s a very serious thing indeed, you know—er—pulling triggers is.”

“Oh, I know it is! Don’t think I didn’t realise it was a serious thing I was doing. I did, only too well. But what could I do? I was completely at their mercy. I had to carry out their orders. Besides,” she added reasonably, “somebody would pull the trigger in any case. What did it matter whether it was me or not?”

Mr. Foster fingered his chin, but seemed disinclined to argue the ethics of the case. He eyed his companion interestedly and mentally compared her, as he did every woman he met, with Agatha. She certainly was very pretty (somehow this reflection came before its immediate successor, that she was after all more sinned against than sinning) and there was an undoubted fascination about her. Fancy! This delicate creature had killed at least one man and, on her own confession, a good few others as well. Oh, yes, the situation was intriguing enough, and so was she. It would be pleasant to earn her unbounded gratitude. But, of course, Agatha must not know. Agatha would hardly understand.

“But you must beware for yourself,” observed the intriguing young woman very earnestly. “The Man with the Broken Nose is merciless. Human life means nothing to him. If he knew you were sheltering me, he’d kill you as soon as that beetle.”

“Would he?” said the startled Mr. Foster. Perhaps earning this young woman’s unbounded gratitude would not be quite so pleasant after all, if it involved being killed as soon as a beetle. Then he recovered himself. These were civilised times, and people would not go about killing other people like beetles.

“Would he, though?” he repeated more truculently. “I think you’d find I’d have something to say about that, my dear.”

Dora reflected that, if the reports of Mr. Foster’s friends were founded upon fact, this was probably true. She took advantage of the psychological moment to clasp her hands and assume her most piteous expression.

“What are you going to do with me, Mr. Foster?” she wailed. “Are you going to turn me away, or hand me over to the police? Or are you going to help me?”

“You intend—hm!—you intend to go straight if I give you your chance?” inquired Mr. Foster in stern, manly accents.

“Oh, yes; I promise. I’ll never shoot anybody again, I swear it. Oh, do say you’ll shelter me, Mr. Foster? They’ll kill me if you don’t.”

Mr. Foster coughed with some importance. “Don’t distress yourself, my dear. I’ll shelter you.”

“And they’ll probably kill you if you do,” remarked the girl gloomily.

“Come, come,” adjured Mr. Foster, hiding a certain apprehension under a very hearty manner. “This sounds almost as bad as a penny-dreadful, you know.”

“There’s no penny-dreadful ever written half so terrible as The Exploits of the Man with the Broken Nose,” replied Dora, coining a snappy title.

“Ah, yes. Now, my dear, we must go into that. I want you, if you won’t interview the police yourself, to give all possible information about him to me,”—here Mr. Foster, who had become a little deflated, swelled once more—“and I’ll see that it is put to the best possible use. Without involving yourself, of course. Now, I’m just going up to the house to cancel something I was going to do this morning, and then I’ll come back to hear your story.”

“Very well,” nodded Dora.

The door clicked behind him.

“Well,” observed Dora to its unresponsive surface, “God help his wife!”

Mr. Foster’s next few minutes were busy ones. Having informed his Agatha that, in consequence of her headache, he had decided now to cancel the expedition to Abingchester, he told her she was wanted on the telephone; he then made use of her absence to extract from her drawers certain surprising objects. A visit to the spare-room and elsewhere followed, and then, cautiously as any Boy Scout, Mr. Foster made his way back to the tool-shed, his burdens under either arm. On the floor of that refuge he dumped before his astonished suppliant a camp-bed, two blankets, a pillow and coverlet, a chaste cambric nightgown with high collar and cuffs, a pink flannel dressing-jacket, and a basket of food. When Mr. Foster did a thing, he did it well.

He proceeded to erect the camp-bed and set out the contents of the basket upon an inverted wheelbarrow.

“Now sit down and enjoy yourself,” admonished Mr. Foster. “I expect you’re starving, so don’t stint yourself. There’s plenty more where that came from. And don’t you worry, girlie. I’ve got to go away for a minute or two now, but I’m going to see you through this.”

With a reassuring smile he was gone. Again the door clicked behind him.

Again Dora gazed at its unresponsive surface. This time her expression was a little more intense. There were few things Dora really objected to in this world, but being called “girlie” was one of them. She waited until such time as she judged the coast to be quite clear, then tried the door. The next moment she tried it again, and again, and again. Indubitably it was locked.

“Damn!” said Miss Howard with feeling, and deliberately broke a small dibber.

Mr. Foster’s reason for retiring was twofold. He wanted to look very carefully up and down the main road, because it would be horrid to be killed like a beetle without any warning and there is never any harm in keeping a weather-eye open for one’s potential murderer. But most of all he wanted to make sure that Agatha was safely occupied. Mr. Foster had his doubts as to how Agatha would regard the presence of this dangerous young woman in his tool-shed.

It is true that Agatha had been properly impressed by his story on Saturday night. His friends at the golf club, on the other hand, had not. In the golf club Mr. Foster’s great story had, it is to be feared, fallen distinctly flat. His friends had not gone so far as to accuse him of pulling their legs, but they had very plainly hinted at it. Now Mr. Foster was bubbling over with a scheme for a most crushing revenge; he would learn all this girl had to tell him, act upon it with his usual thoroughness and, without calling in the official police at all, solve the whole mystery and possibly lay by the heels the sinister Man with the Broken Nose himself. In other words, Mr. Foster felt that if he had been pitch-forked into the middle of a veritable penny-dreadful then it was up to him to see that he usurped the rôle of hero.

But Agatha would almost certainly spoil all that. Agatha would be terrified at the idea that he might be called upon to face actual physical danger. Model wife though she was as a rule (and by “model” Mr. Foster meant “subservient”), she would almost certainly try to put her spoke into his wheel and cause the whole thing to collapse. It was a pity, because Mr. Foster saw some promising possibilities in the situation (“Of course, my dear, it’s no good trying to disguise the fact from you that I’m in deadly danger. I am. These fellows will shoot at sight, and when I penetrate their lair I do so with my life in my hands. I don’t want to exaggerate: I’m simply stating plain facts. No, don’t cry, Agatha. I’m determined to go through with the thing. You wouldn’t have me a coward, would you?”), but there the thing was; Agatha must not know.

Mr. Foster tracked his wife to the kitchen and, listening stealthily, heard her discussing sausages with the cook. From that they would go on to to-night’s dinner, and thence to any number of possibilities. Agatha was safely tethered for the next half-hour.

He strolled out into the road and swept a wary eye up and down it. Except for a medium-sized boy, with a bias towards stoutness, it was empty. Not without relief, Mr. Foster turned towards his own front garden. It was then that the medium-sized boy, who had been regarding him with stolid intentness, spoke to him.

“I say,” said the boy, “are you Mr. Foster?”

Mr. Foster turned back again. “Yes? Do you want me, my boy?”

“I read about you in The Courier,” said the boy.

Mr. Foster brightened. He was all in favour of people who had read about him in The Courier; he was still more in favour of those of them who came to gaze upon him as if he were a local curiosity. “You did, did you?” said Mr. Foster genially. “Well, and what did you think about it all?”

“Jolly fine. Ripping murder, wasn’t it?” The newcomer spoke a trifle absently; his eyes were fixed on Mr. Foster’s nose. Drawing nearer, he scrutinised that organ with careful attention. “I say,” he continued, “have you ever broken your nose?”

Mr. Foster brightened still more. The story of his nose’s rupture was a good one and its telling never palled; and here was an ideal audience for it. Schoolboy, boxing…. The two of them were obviously going to be great chums. Of course he mustn’t keep that poor girl waiting, but perhaps just a couple of minutes….

“Yes,” he said, and did not notice the slight start performed by his audience. “It was at Beanhurst College, where I was at school. We used to have an annual boxing tournament at the end of each winter term, and I had entered for——”

“I say, were you at Beanhurst?” interrupted his audience in a voice of incredible scorn.

Unfortunately a voice of incredible scorn sounds very much like a voice of incredible awe (if you do not believe this, address yourself absent-mindedly in a voice of incredible scorn and see whether your opinion of yourself does not immediately rise). With his customary complacency Mr. Foster read into this one the latter interpretation.

“I was, yes.”

“Good God!” said his audience simply, with the unmitigated contempt of one who is at Harrow for one who was at a minor public school.

Misreading the signs again, Mr. Foster prattled on happily.

His audience listened to not a word; he was busy adding up two and two. Not that there was really any necessity, for the thing was practically clinched. First of all there was the evidence of the footprints, which was pretty well conclusive; then the fellow actually admitted that he had a broken nose; but, most damning of all, the blighter had actually been at Beanhurst, of all filthy, lousy holes! It was tantamount to a complete confession of guilt.

Reginald Foster, Esq. and Alan Spence had very little in common (the inexpressible Beanhurst effectually prevented that), but they had this; they both had dreams of catching the Man with the Broken Nose. Ever since Alan had propounded his great theory to the Inspector and Colonel Ratcliffe and noted the unmistakable way in which they had shown themselves impressed during the subsequent tour of the prints, he had been revolving this great project in his mind; and on his way up to Mr. Foster’s house, after leaving the other two still measuring and looking grave, he had formed a tentative plan for carrying it out. He now proceeded to put it into effect.

“I say,” he broke without ceremony into the climax of the good story, “I say, do you know they’ve got hold of a hell of a clue to that murder the other night?”

Mr. Foster was pained at the interruption, but his pain disappeared before its significance. He stared at the boy. “Got hold of a hell of a clue?” he repeated, his thoughts flying at once to that wistful figure in his tool-shed.

Into Mr. Foster’s unmistakable agitation, indifferently concealed, Alan read the signs of conscious guilt. Under his studiously stolid demeanour his heart began to beat furiously. “Yes, rather. I’m Mrs. Nesbitt’s brother, you see, so I’m in the know. But it’s a ghastly secret.”

“Is it—is it anything to do with the—the girl in the case?” asked Mr. Foster with palpable uneasiness.

Alan was quick on his cue. “Oh, yes. Frightfully! All about her. I should just think it is.”

“Do you mean, they—they’ve found out who she is?”

“I should think they jolly well have. It’s a hell of a clue.” Alan paused and eyed his victim guardedly, then took his decision. “I say, would you care to have a look at it?”

Into Mr. Foster’s mind leapt a wonderful idea. Were it humanly possible he would get hold of this damning clue and, if it could be safely done, destroy it! This might not prevent the police from knowing the girl’s identity, but at least it would stop them from using it in evidence against her. A great and noble scheme, and one calculated to bring him infinite kudos in those pretty gray eyes.

“Yes, I would,” he answered, trying to speak naturally. “Could it be done without any one knowing?”

“Oh, rather. My sister’s away and my brother-in-law’s out. Come along down to the house, and I’ll show it you.”

They walked down the road in almost complete silence, each afraid of saying that superfluous word which may turn incipient success into dismal failure.

In the garden of Dell Cottage could be seen two forms bending with a tape-measure over something on the river bank. Keeping as much as possible under cover, Alan led the way in at the front-door (prudently left ajar) and past the kitchen. “It’s in the cellar,” he explained in a whisper. “They put it there for safety.”

“Quite, quite,” Mr. Foster whispered back.

Two hearts thumped as one as they descended the cellar steps.

“You go first,” Alan muttered, as they reached a stout, iron-bound door at the bottom of the steps.

Mr. Foster went first, gingerly. The next moment he quickened his pace considerably, for a heavy foot, accustomed to kicking a football at the psychological moment, had caught him just below the small of the back and urged him ungently forward. As he fell on all fours on a damp floor, the door slammed behind him.

Chapter XV.
Various People Get Busy

Colonel Ratcliffe straightened himself up from the last footprint with a sigh of relief; he was no longer as young as he had been, and continuous stooping is a little arduous for a frame, however dapper, that is beginning to stiffen. He threw a thoughtful glance round and his eye kindled.

“Not a word about this to anybody, mind, Cottingham,” he remarked now to the Inspector at his side. “No, sir,” said the crestfallen Inspector. The Colonel had been careful not to rub things in too much, but Inspector Cottingham was a disillusioned man. The revenge for which he was thirsting would have surprised the intimates of this hitherto genial policeman; it was nothing less than that the authors of his ignominy should be hanged, drawn, and quartered, and that Inspector Cottingham might be granted official permission to dance on their graves.

“We’ve got to decide what we’re going to do about ft first,” continued the Colonel. “The blighter! Gad, I should never have thought he’d got it in him.”

“Neither should I, sir,” agreed the Inspector mournfully.

“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, by Jove! And there was that newspaper feller with the whole story under his eyes, if only he’d had the gumption to read it. You know, Cottingham, I seriously suspected those two at first, Doyle and Nesbitt; I did really. Until we found that bit of paper at the cross-roads, in fact. I was certain we were on a wild-goose chase over that; thought it was just a faked-up tale. And I admit that not for one moment did I expect that blood to be anything but chicken’s.”

“Yes, sir; we were all taken in at one time,” said the Inspector, neatly including his chief in the general obtuseness. “And if I hadn’t traced the ownership of that bit of paper,” he added carefully, “we’d all be in the dark still.”

“That’s right, Cottingham,” said the Colonel, ever generous. Far too generous, for instance, than to refer to a certain handkerchief whose damning initials had first put them on their present tack. “You did very well there; very well indeed. You know, now one comes to think of it, I can’t imagine why we ever paid any serious attention to the man’s story at all. Far too wild. Crown Prince, indeed! And never even arranging a sound alibi for his movements that evening. Why, the thing was obviously a hoax on the face of it, if we’d only had our wits about us.” The way the Colonel used the first person plural instead of the second was kindness itself.

“But what about the couple Graves saw?” asked the Inspector, shifting the conversation away from this awkward topic. “And the corpse, for the matter of that? In that case there must have been three others in it beside Mr. Foster.”

“That’s right, there must have been. Mind you, Cottingham, I don’t imagine that the thing was planned with the intention of deceiving us. Graves’ intervention seems to me purely fortuitous. I shouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t all directed against the Nesbitts; or even against that fellow who was in the room with the girl. She was in it all right. That’s how the thing looks to me.”

“Well, there might be something in that, sir, yes,” conceded the Inspector handsomely.

The Colonel lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the river. “Still, it’s impossible to say either way yet. We must hear what this blighter Foster’s got to say for himself; ought not to be difficult to get him to give himself away. We’ll do that this afternoon.”

Colonel Ratcliffe was no fool. His reasoning had been sound and, up to a point, perfectly correct. But unfortunately, the two brains pitted against his were just a shade shrewder; they also had the advantage of being perfectly unscrupulous. It was these two facts which caused the Colonel’s reasoning to deflect from the line of correctness and come to an end at the person of Reginald Foster, Esq.

He began to stroll towards the road. “You know, Cottingham,” he remarked, “I don’t really know what we’re going to do with this feller Foster. We could arrest him, I suppose, and charge him with contempt of police or something like that; but we’d only make laughing-stocks of ourselves if we did. So far as I can see what we’d better do is to frighten him out of his wits and let him go. I fancy The Courier and Doyle between them will see to it that he doesn’t get off too lightly.”

If the Inspector was going to protest vehemently against this proposed clemency, or if he then and there violently made up his mind to be no party to it, he gave no sign at the moment, for two figures had suddenly sprung into sight in the gateway between the two gardens, and were now leisurely strolling towards them. Mr. Doyle and Guy had indeed been at some pains, by means of a careful watch maintained for nearly an hour, to choose this particular moment to learn the result of their venture.

“Good-morning, Colonel,” Guy began politely. “Well, any news?”

The Colonel looked as innocent as a new-born infant. “News?” he repeated, as if not quite sure what the word meant.

Guy was much too cunning himself to introduce the subject of footprints. He said nothing.

“Would you rather I retired, Colonel?” smiled Doyle. “I know that all official persons seem to have a good deal of difficulty in talking in my presence. It’s a rotten business being a journalist. Everybody treats one with suspicion.”

The Colonel laughed. “Well, I’m afraid I haven’t anything in the way of news to tell you, officially or unofficially.”

“Nothing I can pass on to The Courier at all? Oh, come, Colonel; try and think of something. I shall get the sack if I don’t send them something startling to-day, you know. A sensation a day makes The Courier pay, is their motto.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” said the Colonel, his eyes twinkling, “you can tell them this, that the police are confident of solving the mystery within twenty-four hours. That ought to keep them going for a bit.”

“Then you have got some news, sir?” Mr. Doyle cried with admirable eagerness. “You haven’t unearthed some fresh clues, by any chance, have you?”

The Colonel’s eyes twinkled again. “Go and look in the garden where we’ve been all the morning. Your eyes are as good as ours. By the way, all sorts of people are taking a hand in solving this mystery. Your brother-in-law is the latest recruit, Nesbitt.”

“Alan? Yes, he’s as keen as mustard. He came to me this morning full of some ridiculous story. I gather that he’s decided that the Man with the Broken Nose is Mr. Foster. Why don’t you put that in The Courier, Doyle?”

Both laughed with considerable amusement. The Colonel laughed too. Then Guy offered the Colonel an appetiser before lunch, which the latter (to Inspector Cottingham’s patent regret) refused, and they parted.

“He’s swallowed it,” Doyle whispered happily, as the two of them continued their nonchalant stroll towards the house. “I’m certain he has.”

“Yes, I think we can write that off as another success,” agreed Guy, quivering with joy. “I knew that if he didn’t comment on my remarks about Alan, it would be because he took his story seriously.”

“What a thing it is to be a psychologist!” said Mr. Doyle, with proper admiration.

They passed indoors and refreshed themselves with the appetisers declined by the Colonel.

As they passed in, Alan, timing things to a nicety, passed out. He pounded down the road in the wake of the Colonel, uttering subdued cries.

“Hullo?” said the Colonel, stopping. “What’s the matter, Spence?”

Alan pounded up, very red and breathless. “I’ve got him!” he announced. “He’s—oof!—locked in the celler—oof! I say, are you going to arrest him?”

An unholy smile appeared on the Colonel’s face. “Is it a nice cellar, Spence?” he asked gently.

“No, a bit damp, you know; so near the river. My sister says it was flooded last month.”

“But not now?” said the Colonel, with regret. “Never mind; it’ll do. No, I’m not going to arrest him now. I’ll come back and see him later in the day. In the meantime—well, I think he might stay there, don’t you?”

Alan grinned. “I won’t let him out. But he’ll make a hell of a noise, won’t he?”

“I doubt it. But if he does, you can tell your brother-in-law that I’ve taken the liberty of borrowing his cellar for a few hours, and I should be obliged if he would consider it commandeered for that time in the name of the law. It’s quite illegal, but I fancy he won’t mind.”

“Right-ho, I’ll tell him. I say, here’s the key.”

The Colonel pouched it, and uttered words of commendation and high praise. Thoroughly pleased with each other, they parted.

Alan delivered his message to Guy with considerable satisfaction. The burden of his remarks ran jubilantly along the lines of “I told you so.”

Guy had already taken the precaution of telegraphing instructions to both his maids to prolong their holiday till further notice—orders which both those ladies received with profound regret; never can English servants have been so anxious to get on with the job for which they were being paid as Guy’s cook and parlourmaid that Monday morning.

Lunch was therefore taken at George’s house, Mr. Doyle acting as host. George and Monica failed to put in an appearance; Dora was still mysteriously absent. It cannot be said that Mr. Doyle was unduly worried about his fiancée, but he did express a little mild wonderment as to what in the name of all that was holy she could be up to now. If he had known that what she was up to was the roof of a stout tool-shed, it is to be feared that his wonderment would have given place to indecorous mirth.

For Dora had spent a dull morning.

When at first Mr. Foster did not return she was not alarmed, and stretched herself on the convenient camp-bed the better to enjoy the full flavour of her jest. It was annoying that her jailer should have thought it necessary to lock her in, but she had no anxiety as to her final escape when the time should arrive. She was still in a recumbent position when, some twenty minutes later, she heard, not without relief, stealthy footsteps approaching.

The tool-shed was, for its kind, a well-lighted structure. There were two windows, both small but comparatively free from dust, in each side fronting the garden, so that the light, entering in two different directions, was well diffused. The footsteps stopped by the door, and for a few moments there was an unaccountable silence. Then, looking up, Dora became aware of a face peering in at one of the windows. It was a nondescript sort of face, of the female genus, and it wore an indescribable expression. Startled by this unexpected appearance, Dora lifted herself on one elbow and stared at the face. The face stared back. Having stared its full it withdrew, and footsteps an instant later showed that its owner was taking it back to the house very much more quickly than she had brought it.

“Well, I’ll be bothered!” said Miss Dora Howard.

She remained bothered, on her back, for another half-hour, until her wrist-watch showed that it was past one o’clock. Then she began to prowl round her prison, her soul filled with dark thoughts about Mr. Foster. Unconscious that at the same moment he also was prowling round a prison, and a much more repellent one at that, she was now very much less sure of her success with that gentleman. Either he had seen through her and was now fitting her punishment to her crime, or else he simply considered that by providing her with food and bedding and a stout locked door, he had done quite enough for her for the time being. In either case the outlook was not bright. She went on prowling.

At a quarter to two she gave up the walls and door as hopeless for a poor weak woman, even armed with a hoe. The windows were two small to bother with, so she mounted on the wheelbarrow to examine the roof. The roof was composed of far too many stout rafters covered with much too much corrugated iron. At a quarter-past two she had managed, with the aid of the hoe, a fork, and a piece of the broken dibber, to slide a piece of the latter far enough down the slope to enable her to protrude her head tortoise-like through the aperture and survey the outer world, her shoulders pressed against the rafters; farther than that the wretched thing refused to budge.

At half-past two a small boy and a dog went by along the lane; at twenty minutes to three two old women. After these the stream of traffic ran dry.

At ten minutes to four George and Monica were approaching the main road at Duffley, when a subdued shriek on their right engaged their attention. George, avoiding the ditch by a millimetre as the car swerved violently on seeing the head of one of its mistresses protruding from the middle of a corrugated roof, came to a standstill.

There are times when it is singularly useful to be a man. It took George just ninety-eight seconds to swing himself up on to the tool-house roof and rip off the obstinate strip of corrugated iron, and another twenty-three to haul Dora up by her wrists between the rafters. Looking down at the latter afterwards, George wondered how the deuce he had been able to squeeze her between them. So did Dora. She got into the car a little pensively. Monica, who had been torn between the respect due to a real actress on the real stage and a violent inclination to begin laughing hopelessly and go on laughing for ever, just managed to conquer her desires.

As George was steering the car through his own gates a few moments later, he remarked very airily: “By the way, Dawks, you needn’t bother about Monica. Er—knowing things, you know. I told her.”

“It certainly does save a lot of trouble,” Dora agreed.

“I think it’s a frightful rag,” Monica giggled.

“Do you? But you haven’t been spending the morning in Mr. Foster’s tool-shed. Well, I must fly. We’ve just time for a cup of tea before we start, George.”

George looked at Monica a little wistfully. “I suppose you’d really better not go by train?” he asked his sister.

“Certainly not,” said Dora, who much preferred cars to trains.

George reddened somewhat and bent to fumble quite unnecessarily with the petrol-tap. “Wouldn’t care to come up, too, Monica?” he remarked gruffly. “Keep me company coming back and all that? Bit too late for you, eh?”

“Oh, George, you angel! I’d love it. I was simply longing to be asked, but thought you wouldn’t want me as well as the others.”

George’s red area extended to the back of his ears. “What rot. Why ever not? That’s settled then. Good.” He caught his sister’s quivering eye and looked hastily away. George hated being winked at when he was red.

Not unintrigued, Dora ran into the house. Between the first and last of the dozen odd steps she took she had considered Monica’s advisability as a wife for George, decided whole-heartedly in favour of her, got them engaged, helped them choose their furniture, married them, despatched them on their honeymoon, and gone to dinner with Pat with them a year later. Women have nimble minds.

Twenty minutes later the car and its complement departed.

Guy walked back to Dell Cottage with a distinctly flat feeling. True, Mr. Foster was still in its cellars, which was a pleasing thought; but a joke loses most of its savour when there is nobody to share it with. Goodness knew when Cynthia would be back, and it was obviously impossible to say anything to Alan.

As if in answer to his prayer for company, he saw the Inspector and Colonel Ratcliffe enter his front garden as he reached the house, and hurried round to meet them.

“Whatever’s happening now, Colonel?” he greeted that gentleman, with a nod to the Inspector. “Alan tells me you’ve got Mr. Foster of all people shut up in my cellar. Why?”

The Colonel grinned like a schoolboy. Now that he had penetrated the mystery he was as ready to enjoy its joke as any one; but he was determined that Mr. Foster was not going to get away with it unscathed. He was quite looking forward to the next half-hour.

“Why have I kept Mr. Foster locked up in your cellar, Nesbitt?” he said. “For the good of his soul. I’m now going to have an interview with the gentleman. If you’d care to be present, I think you might be interested.”

“Good Heavens!” Guy cried, with praiseworthy ingenuousness. “You don’t think he actually had anything to do with it, do you?”

The Colonel looked at his frank, bewildered countenance and grinned again. Funny how he’d suspected Nesbitt first of all; any one could see now that he was as innocent as a babe. Scholarly sort of chap, he looked; not a bit the kind to plan an elaborate hoax of this kind. But just the sort of chap, on the other hand, to have an elaborate hoax played on him.

“Lead on to the cellar, there’s a good chap,” grinned the Colonel.

With a puzzled shrug, Guy led on; Colonel Ratcliffe and the Inspector followed; a palpitating Alan brought up the rear. Guy opened the cellar door and instantly, like a jack from its box, a round black figure shot out, exuding coal-dust at every pore and buzzing like an angry wasp.

“What the devil … unwarrantable outrage … have the law … police … gross abuse of …” buzzed the figure.

The Colonel dealt sharply and efficiently with the buzz. “Now then, Mr. Foster,” he barked, in the voice which had made a Guards battalion quiver in its buttons, “that’ll do. If you’ve anything to say, kindly say it to me.”

Mr. Foster was not a Guards battalion. He quivered, certainly, but for quite another reason. Arresting his coal-dusty progress half-way up the stairs he complied with the Colonel’s invitation at some length. “I’ve a good deal to say, sir,” spluttered Mr. Foster, and went on to prove the truth of his words.

He might have gone on proving them all night had not the Colonel cut him short once more. “That’s enough, Foster,” said the Colonel. “The game’s up. We know all about you. Come upstairs.”

Mr. Foster came, as gently as any sucking-pig. Into his mind had flashed a horrible realisation—they had discovered that girl in his tool-shed and were going to arrest him for sheltering a murderess! He was—what was the phrase? Yes, an accessory after the fact. And accessories after facts, Mr. Foster had an uncomfortable notion, were just as guilty in the eyes of the law as the principals. Disturbing thought—if they hanged that girl they would probably hang him too! Mr. Foster felt very sorry for the girl, but he felt still more sorry for Mr. Foster. By the time the little party reached the scullery, whither they led him out of consideration for the rest of Guy’s house, Mr. Foster was quite certain that he was going to be hanged. He simply hated the idea.

“Now then,” barked the Colonel, as the circle closed round Mr. Foster in the scullery. “Now then, what have you got to say for yourself?”

“N-nothing,” quavered the moribund Mr. Foster, and exuded a small shower of coal-dust from his clothes by way of emphasis.

“Ah!” said the Colonel. “You admit it, then, do you?”

“Y-yes,” trembled Mr. Foster. Since they knew all about it, he might just as well. He would not have admitted that he was covered with coal-dust had he seen any hope in denying it, but as they must have heard the girl’s story, and checked its truth by the nightgown, the camp outfit, and the cook’s evidence about food conveyed out of her larder that morning, he could see no earthly point in refusing to acknowledge his guilt. Perhaps, on the other hand, if he threw himself on their mercy, they might be more lenient.

Guy was puzzled. He had the best of reasons for knowing that Mr. Foster had not committed the crime to which he was apparently confessing. What was the idea, then? He brightened. The nature of the crime had not been mentioned as yet, so that quite possibly Mr. Foster did not know of what he was accused. In that case he must be confessing to some totally different crime. Guy’s delighted smile broadened. What had the terrible fellow been up to? Embezzlement? Arson? Falsifying his income-tax return? Buying cigarettes after hours? Something devilish, no doubt.

“Inspector,” said the Colonel in a voice of iron, “do your duty.”

The Inspector stepped forward. He knew what to do, because the Colonel had been rehearsing him for most of the afternoon. His little job was to go as near to arresting Mr. Foster as one might without actually putting him under arrest. He frowned terrifically, both to intimidate his now abject victim and because he had suddenly and completely forgotten the neat little speech which the Colonel had been at some pains to compose for him.

“Reginald Foster,” he said portentously, and frowned again, “Reginald Foster, you——” No, it was no use. “Reginald Foster, you comealongerme!” said the Inspector with the utmost ferocity. “And I warn you that everythink you say will be used in evidence against you,” he added perfunctorily and not altogether correctly.

Guy turned hastily away to screen his face, and Mr. Foster looked pathetically from one to the other of his captors. Was it very unpleasant, being hanged? And how upsetting for Agatha. In the background Alan hovered ecstatically.

With an effort Guy regained control of his face and voice.

“Are you going to arrest him?” he managed to ask the Colonel.

The Colonel did not reply directly. “Take him away, Inspector,” he said first in an official voice, and watched their progress out of the back door. Then he turned to Guy. “That friend of yours, The Courier man, Doyle, he’s gone back to London, hasn’t he?” he asked, with apparent irrelevance.

“Yes,” said Guy, somewhat mystified.

“Well, if you’re in communication with him tell him about this little scene by all means, but at the same time tell him not to use it in The Courier.”

“Not to use it?” repeated Guy, now completely bewildered.

“Yes, he’ll thank me for it later. It’s—well, you can say I want it kept secret, and you can add that that’s an order. If I’m not very much surprised he’ll understand.”

“Will he?” said Guy, who was not inclined to agree.

The Colonel was half-way to the door. He turned back for a moment. “If he doesn’t,” he added over his shoulder, “you can tell him also ‘Because of the Crown Prince.’” And suppressing a chuckle, the Colonel vanished after the Inspector and Mr. Foster.

On second thoughts the Colonel had decided to say nothing to Guy about the whole business being a hoax. He would have to think things over a little more officially first before allowing the news to be promulgated that the police had been trapped into investigating a mare’s nest for the last forty-eight hours; and perhaps he had better consult a magistrate in Abingchester too. Colonel Ratcliffe had not held the post of Chief Constable very long, and he was uncertain as to the correct method of procedure on discovering his official leg, and the official legs of those under him, to have been successfully pulled.

Guy stared after him. The Colonel’s manner had been mysterious in the extreme. He seemed to have no doubt of Mr. Foster’s guilt, but why had he given that order about not mentioning the arrest in The Courier? Decidedly he had given the impression that there was a good deal more in his mind than he was willing to speak about. Guy rubbed his chin. What was in the Colonel’s mind?

He took a half-step in the direction of the hall and the telephone, then halted again. It was no good ringing up The Courier offices and leaving a message. Doyle had said that he would be in the building from nine to ten, in case anything happened; he would wait till then. And one thing was very certain: Doyle would have to come back to Duffley to-morrow morning as early as possible, whether The Courier wanted him to do so or not. Something was in the wind, and the two of them had got to lay their heads together and find out what it was.

In the meantime there was this matter of Mr. Foster’s arrest. Not in his wildest dreams had Guy ever expected Mr. Foster to be arrested. Until a body is forthcoming, surely an arrest for murder cannot be effected; Guy was not very sure on the point, but certainly that was his impression. What, then, was the Colonel’s game? What, moreover, had Foster been confessing to?

With knitted brows Guy walked into his library and threw himself into a chair to think things out. Either the scheme was being successful beyond all hopes, or else a nasty snag had made its appearance somewhere. He wondered which it was.

In the meantime the objects of his earnest thought were walking along the road, followed by Alan’s eager eyes, like Jezebel’s from an upper window. They walked slowly, for all three had plenty to think about, and in silence. Two hundred yards or more had been covered before the Colonel gave tongue.

“You know, Foster,” he remarked, with more of the easy chattiness of the victor to the vanquished than he had hitherto displayed, “you know, it was that note that really gave you away. What on earth made you write it on your own note-paper?”

Mr. Foster raised dull eyes from an inward contemplation of last breakfasts and clergyman’s ministrations. “What note?” he asked apathetically.

“That note you wrote Nesbitt, of course, to get him away from the house. By the way, who was the girl?”

“I don’t know,” mourned Mr. Foster.

“You don’t know?” repeated the Colonel incredulously.

“No, I’d never even asked her her name.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

“What was that you said about a note?” asked Mr. Foster after a little pause. “I never wrote a note to Nesbitt.”

“Don’t be funny,” snapped the Colonel.

“I wasn’t,” replied Mr. Foster humbly, registering a mental memorandum that denying the authorship of notes he hadn’t written was considered humorous.

There was another little silence.

“Well,” said the Colonel, “got any reason why I shouldn’t have you clapped into jail, Foster, eh?”

Mr. Foster’s face brightened under its coal. Had he a chance after all?

“I—I didn’t know I was doing wrong,” he said eagerly. “She told me she meant to reform, you see. I wasn’t exactly sheltering her from the law: only from those scoundrels who were after her. I—I thought it right to do so. Of course,” added Mr. Foster virtuously, “I was going to inform the police when the danger was over, that is, in an hour or two. I—I know my duty as a citizen, I hope. Especially after she’d actually confessed to the murder. That’s what makes it so unfair, I think, arresting me too. If you’d only given me time you’d have heard from me all about it.” In his anxiety to escape the dock himself Mr. Foster had no compunction in pushing his recent visitor more securely inside it.

“What the blazes are you talking about?” demanded the Colonel blankly.

The Inspector drew out his notebook and looked official.

“The girl you found in my tool-shed,” said Mr. Foster, with some surprise. “I assure you there was no previous arrangement. I was as astonished when I saw her looking over my fence this morning as you would have been.”

The Colonel was no fool. He knew that cross-purposes had crept into the conversation somehow, and he was not going to give his own case away. “Tell me the whole story in your own words, from the very beginning,” he said curtly.

Mr. Foster told it.

The Colonel listened with increasing astonishment. Either this man was the most plausible scoundrel unhanged, or else he was the biggest fool unstrangled. As the story proceeded, the Colonel inclined to the latter explanation. The idiot’s words rang true; he did not sound as if he were inventing his tale, the details were convincing. Good Gad!

“Well, we’ll soon see if you’re speaking the truth,” he said, when Mr. Foster’s bleating accents had come to an end almost at his own front door. “Take us to this tool-shed of yours and let’s have a look at this girl.”

“But—but haven’t you arrested her?” stammered Mr. Foster.

“Never you mind what I’ve done or what I haven’t,” replied the Colonel gruffly.

In a state of mental chaos Mr. Foster led them to the tool-shed, produced the key and automatically unlocked the door. No girl was there. A strip of twilit sky visible through the roof, however, showed where a girl, a very slim girl, might possibly have been. Around them stood camp bedding, a muddy nightgown, pieces of bread and a burnt sausage, mute witnesses to Mr. Foster’s veracity.

“She’s gone,” said Mr. Foster, inspired.

Against his will the Colonel was almost convinced. There and then, among the camp bedding, the muddy nightgown and the burnt sausage, he questioned Mr. Foster at considerable length, and the answers he obtained completed his conversion. He had been wrong: the man was only a consummate ass. Then in that case…. The Colonel’s eye grew grim and his brow darkened. In that case….

“Describe this girl as closely as you can,” he ordered.

It is surprising how misleading a perfectly accurate description may be. Dora Howard and Cynthia Nesbitt were not in the slightest degree alike. Mr. Foster gave a very fair working description of Dora; the Colonel received a perfect impression of Cynthia.

“You know Mrs. Nesbitt, don’t you?” he asked casually, when the perfect impression was complete.

“No,” said Mr. Foster, with mild surprise at the irrelevance. “I believe my wife’s called on her, and I know Nesbitt at the club, of course, but I’ve never met his wife personally. Why?”

“Nothing!” snapped the Colonel, and took a curt departure. Colonel Ratcliffe was in a very bad temper indeed.

It was unfortunate that his way took him past the station at the very moment when Cynthia was leaving it on her return from London. He crossed the road and dabbed at his hat as if grudging the courtesy of removing it.

“Evening, Mrs. Nesbitt,” he said, on the impulse of the moment. “Will you come over to the police-station, please?”

“Certainly,” Cynthia agreed charmingly. “Are you going to arrest me?”

“Jolly good mind to,” growled the Colonel, who was not going to beat about bushes any longer. “I’ll pay you one compliment, though, Mrs. Nesbitt. You don’t look as if you’d been spending the day in a tool-shed and scrambled out through the roof, I must say.”

“What!” exclaimed the astonished Cynthia, who had anticipated certain unpleasant topics of conversation but certainly not tool-sheds.

“You look,” amplified the Colonel, making his point clearer, “as if you’d just come back from a day in London.”

“But that’s just what I have done!”

“What!” exclaimed the Colonel in his turn.

Cynthia amplified her own point. Seeing that the Colonel looked sceptical, she led him into the station and produced for him unimpeachable evidence, in the shape of a grinning porter-ticket-inspector, that she really had left Duffley on the 9.47 train for London, and returned on the 6.19.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” said the Colonel.

“Don’t you think you’d better tell me exactly what was in your mind?” Cynthia asked gently, and smiled at him.

The Colonel hesitated, took another look at the smile, then led her out into the road and told her.

“Poor Mr. Foster,” said Cynthia, her lips twitching. “And now, Colonel, I think you’d better take me along to that police-station of yours. I want to talk to you a little, and I can’t very well do it here.” She smiled at him again.

The Colonel took her. He led her into the Inspector’s room and ejected that worthy into the company of Constable Graves. He put Cynthia into the best chair and smiled at her. Cynthia smiled back.

Then Cynthia talked, and as she talked she smiled. The Colonel grew as wax before her, and the more Cynthia smiled the more the Colonel melted. In a quarter of an hour he was a deliquescent mass, promising impossible things in all directions.

“And you really ought to apologise to Mr. Foster, you know,” smiled Cynthia, as she rose at last to go.

The Colonel even promised this. “Damn it, I’ll do it this evening,” said the deliquescent Colonel.

It is quite certain that he really meant to do so too, at the moment. Fortunately, however, for his official dignity, a circumstance had already arisen which was to make it impossible for this particular promise to be fulfilled. At the very moment when the Colonel was giving utterance to it Mr. Foster was standing in his big double bedroom with a dazed expression on his face and a letter in his hand.

The letter was of considerable length. It was from Mrs. Foster and in it she had seen fit to give expression to all the thoughts about her husband which had crowded her bosom for the last twenty years; there had been a good many such thoughts, and Mrs. Foster had done her conscientious best not to omit a single one. The result would have been surprising to a complete stranger; to Mr. Foster it was paralysing.

But not so paralysing as the end of this remarkable effusion. The end ran as follows:—

“All this I’ve put up with, because I knew it only arose out of your inordinate conceit, self-satisfaction, and egotism, and was not really based on wickedness. But when it comes to your keeping a mistress in a tool-shed at the bottom of the garden, then things have reached their limit. Thanks to the money you have settled on me from time to time, I am financially independent. I am therefore leaving you for good and going up to London at once. Don’t try to follow me, because you won’t find me, and in any case I never want to set eyes on you again. Even if you do find me, nothing will ever induce me to live with you again, and if you want me to divorce you so that you can marry your mistress, I shall only be too delighted to do so; you can communicate with me, on that subject only, through our solicitors —Agatha.”

Chapter XVI.
Mr. Priestley Bursts a Bombshell

For two whole days’ time, in so far as the Duffley mystery was concerned, stood still. Guy and Mr. Doyle, racking their brains in vain, were able to establish only one definite fact: Mr. Foster remained mysteriously absent from his home. Mrs. Foster, added the maid who gave them this information, was also absent.

The conspirators’ uneasiness grew. Apparently Mr. Foster, still under arrest, was being held for some obscure reason. What that reason might be they could not imagine, except that it was almost too good to be true that it could be the one for which they had been working. In fact, the only thing about which the two felt quite sure was that this was not the end of all things, but merely a lull before a storm out of which almost anything might emerge.

It would be too much to say that Guy and Mr. Doyle were losing their nerve; it would not be too much to say that they realised matters had slipped out of their own grasp and they rather wished they hadn’t.

Nor did Cynthia’s attitude help them. With a pertinacity worthy of Cassandra she continued to prophesy disaster, and spent most of her time coming to Guy to ask him what he wanted done about this, that, and the other, “when they were all in prison.”

Only George, who had no nerve to lose, and Monica, who was not committed, really retained their balance; with the quite natural consequence that they had to balance each other, mostly in the car. If you had asked George at that time whether he had any complex about hose-pipes, he would have replied according to the best judicial models: “What is a hose-pipe?” He would then have taken Monica out for another driving lesson.

As for Alan, nobody seemed to want him much. Monica even went so far as to remark that if he came mooning round her any more, she’d lock him in the coal-cellar for a day or two and see how he liked it. To which Alan replied very fraternally indeed, with much recourse to the name of “George.” Monica, very pink but beautifully dignified, forbore to retort, chiefly because for once she had nothing to say, and walked off with her small nose very much in the air. Alan then abandoned the study of footprints for that of Guy’s Canadian canoe. Having fallen into the river seven times in an endeavour to learn how to propel this treacherous craft standing upright in the stern with a punt-pole, he felt a good deal better.

Duffley was not the only place where people were puzzled during these days. All that portion of the population whose breakfast-tables were enlivened by The Daily Courier, shared a common bewilderment. For The Courier was just as bewildered as its readers. In other papers only the briefest notices had appeared regarding the Duffley entertainment, in some it had not even been mentioned at all. Their reporters had gone down on Sunday, investigated, and one and all returned to report that in their opinion there was something fishy about the whole thing, and a non-committal attitude, amounting even to complete ignorance, would be the wiser policy. The Courier, having already committed itself, could only pursue, at any rate for a day or two, the line it had adopted, but a shrewd man was sent down, unknown to Mr. Doyle, to look into matters himself. His subsequent report, though quite admitting the possibility that things might be as they had seemed, caused the editor some very thoughtful moments; but though inscribing Mr. Doyle’s name on a mental black list, he continued perforce to publish that gentleman’s reports.

As soon as possible, however, these were shifted from the chief news-page to the secondary, progressing thence by easy stages to a corner among the advertisements; at the same time editorial notes were added in which a distinctly sceptical tone was to be discerned. Readers of The Courier who were conversant with their favourite’s habits knew that by the end of the week it would be as if there were no such place as Duffley at all. In the meantime the streams of information which continued to pour into The Courier’s offices regarding the broken noses of the British Isles were diverted into the waste-paper basket.

Mr. Doyle noted these developments and smiled; he had already obtained enough money, upon completely false pretences, to furnish two houses instead of one; and he was quite able to write other kinds of fiction.

Besides the editorial offices of The Courier there was another room in London in which uneasy thought had become the order of the day, and this was whatever room happened to be occupied by Miss Laura Howard. As a general rule this room was Mr. Priestley’s study.

Laura had noticed a subtle change in Mr. Priestley. It had seemed to date from Monday morning. He had not talked to her very much at lunch and had looked at her several times in a curious way. Finally she asked laughingly if he was suffering from indigestion. Mr. Priestley had repudiated the indigestion, but mumbled something about this wretched business being more serious than he had realised. Hiding a stab of conscience under a smile, Laura remarked that he’d cheer up all right when he saw all the gorgeous things she’d bought. Mr. Priestley’s only reply had been to look as if he would burst into tears at the sight of them.

After lunch, too, he had been queer. Setting her down almost peremptorily to the Juvenal again, he had announced that he had to go out for a short time. He did not return till past five o’clock; and though he was then no longer quite so mournful as at lunch, his seriousness had, if anything, increased. He also contrived (a considerable feat) to impart that seriousness to Laura herself.

“You know,” said Mr. Priestley, looking at her very intently over his second cup of tea, “I have no wish to frighten you unduly, but this matter is very much more alarming than we thought, Laura.”

“Oh?” said Laura, impressed in spite of herself by his weightiness. What on earth had happened now?

Mr. Priestley selected a piece of currant cake with some care. “I’m afraid there is a great deal of which you know nothing at all. For instance, we were quite wrong when we assumed the title ‘Crown Prince’ to be a species of nickname for the dead man. It was nothing of the sort. Nor, indeed, was he the man you imagined.”

“Oh?” said the surprised Laura, who had heard from Cynthia only a few hours ago exactly how the Crown Prince had come into it at all, together with all the rest of the events following her own departure from the scene. “What was he, then?” she asked.

“A real Crown Prince,” replied Mr. Priestley solemnly.

Laura struggled with a wild desire to laugh. “Was he really?” she managed to say with equal solemnity, trying to remember the precise points of the story she had invented the previous morning.

“Indeed he was,” nodded Mr. Priestley. “So now you can see the pickle we’re in. I have a friend in the Foreign Office whom I went to see this afternoon, and I must admit that I did go with an ulterior motive. I went, in fact, to pump him.” Mr. Priestley spoke in a deprecating way and looked a little ashamed of himself.

“Yes?” said Laura, from whom all desire to laugh had very suddenly fled.

Mr. Priestley ate three mouthfuls of cake with maddening deliberation. “The result,” he continued, “surpassed my wildest expectations.”

It is a curious fact that when any normally well-educated, well-read person embarks upon the ship of fiction he immediately dons a complete outfit of clichés, such as he would shudder to use in ordinary converse; it is not until he has got his sea-legs that he discards, or does his best to discard, these atrocities. Mr. Priestley was no exception.

“Wildest expectations,” he repeated. “I found my friend much distressed. The Crown Prince of Bosnogovina, who has been in this country for many years, has disappeared during the week-end. Simply disappeared!” He paused impressively.

“Bosno—— where did you say?” asked the astonished Laura.

“Bosnogovina,” responded Mr. Priestley glibly. “I’m not surprised you don’t seem to know the country; I’d never heard of it myself till this afternoon. It’s a little state tucked in between the borders of Rumania and Jugo-Slavia. A buffer state, I think my friend called it. It is only a few hundred square miles in extent, but I gather that its importance in the European scheme of things is quite considerable. I am not much of a politician,” added Mr. Priestley apologetically, “but I understand that its importance lies in the fact that should Rumania and Jugo-Slavia ever contemplate going to war, one of them would have to invade Bosnogovina, and Bosnogovina’s neutrality has been guaranteed by all the big powers of Europe. A situation would therefore arise not unlike that of Belgium at the beginning of the recent war, with similar incalculable consequences. At least, I think that is what my friend said.”

“Good gracious!” said Laura, and so far forgot good manners as to gape with her mouth open.

Mr. Priestley glanced at her and quickly away again.

“Now, after the late war,” he continued a moment later, “Bosnogovina, like so many other recently enemy countries, suffered a revolution. The reigning dynasty was driven out (quite peaceably and without bloodshed, you understand) and a republic proclaimed. The King and Queen betook themselves to Switzerland, where they still are; the Crown Prince Paulovitch, or some such name as that, came to England. My friend, whose duty it was, immediately got into touch with him and has remained so, though distantly, ever since. He tells me that the Crown Prince, while never renouncing his hopes of regaining the throne of his fathers, nevertheless thought it prudent to carve out a career for himself in this country just in case. He had been educated in England and spoke excellent English. In appearance, I may say, he was tall and burly, with a black beard and a commanding manner. Now, does that description remind you of any one?”

Laura nodded dumbly. She could not do anything else.

“Precisely!” crowed Mr. Priestley. “The Crown Prince joined the firm of—now what was the name? Ah, yes; Hamley and Waterhouse. Was it at Hamley and Waterhouse’s that you were employed?”

Laura would have given anything to shriek out: “No! It was The Diestampers and Bedstead-Knob-Beaters Company, Ltd.!” but found herself unable to do anything of the sort. Fascinated into helplessness, she could only nod dumbly again.

“Exactly!” squeaked Mr. Priestley in triumph (not unmerited triumph). “And the man you knew as plain Mr. Jones or Robinson or whatever it was, my dear, was in reality the Crown Prince of Bosnogovina.” Mr. Priestley beamed ingenuous enjoyment of this terrific climax.

Laura continued to gape speechlessly. She was, in fact, flabbergasted. It never occurred to her for a single instant that Mr. Priestley was diving into hitherto unexplored depths of fiction. Why should it? Laura knew Mr. Priestley well enough, and she knew that he would never have dreamed of doing such a thing on his own volition; what she did not know was that Mr. Priestley had just been subjected for nearly two whole hours to the remarkable stimulus of Cynthia’s smile. She just went on gaping, while her mind turned a series of complicated cart-wheels.

“So you see how very serious that is,” Mr. Priestley took up his tale in more sober accents. “My friend had no idea of the Crown Prince’s house at Duffley, and this really is rather extraordinary, because these Nesbitts, who seem quite respectable people, not only deny all knowledge of the affair itself but even of the Crown Prince himself. My friend has had them very carefully examined (of course without their suspecting anything of the sort) and their story checked, and on the whole he is inclined to believe they are speaking the truth. That makes it all the more remarkable that you should know about him being there, doesn’t it?”

“Y-yes,” said Laura, faintly, finding her voice with an effort.

“However, there is no doubt he was there, and there is no doubt that he was a blackguard even if he was a Crown Prince; what you told me quite proves that, though naturally I did not mention any of that to my friend. Even now I can’t say that I’m altogether sorry I shot him; he seems to have deserved it if ever a man did, Crown Prince or no Crown Prince. So I don’t think you need worry yourself on that score, my dear niece,” said Mr. Priestley kindly.

“Th-thank you,” faltered his dear niece, who certainly was not worrying herself on that score.

There was a little pause while Mr. Priestley extracted his cigarette-case, courteously asked permission to smoke, and received a feeble affirmative.

“As for the gang,” continued Mr. Priestley, when his cigarette was alight, “they’re quite easily explained. They were a body of malcontents (Communists, I think) from Bosnogovina who have repeatedly expressed their determination to exterminate the dynasty altogether and so prevent Bosnogovina from reverting to a monarchy even should it feel inclined. My friend thinks that quite definitely established, though unfortunately no trace of the ruffians has been found. And in official circles it is taken for granted (fortunately for us!) that it was members of this gang who shot the Crown Prince. Of course they have the constable’s descriptions of you and me, but they think we are members of the Communist gang, if you understand.”

“Do they?” said Laura mechanically.

“Yes, I’m glad indeed to say they do. On the other hand (and this is where we are not so fortunate) the most urgent search is being prosecuted by the Secret Service, whose resources I understand to be simply unlimited, to discover our whereabouts. I realised when I heard this how extremely rash I had been in going to see my friend and actually in his official quarters. It was a terrible risk.” Mr. Priestley expelled a cloud of smoke with the modest demeanour of one who knows he is a brave and reckless fellow and has no need to brag about it.

“Good Heavens!” was all Laura could think of to say, but she said it with a good deal of feeling.

Mr. Priestley paused for a few moments to admire himself. He had told a good story, and he thought he had told it well. As far as he could remember, he had included every single point that had been impressed upon him. He glanced at his companion almost maliciously, if that is not too strong a word even to hint at in connection with Mr. Priestley. What he saw in that young woman’s countenance gave him a good deal of wicked pleasure. He knew it was wicked pleasure, but he just didn’t care. Mr. Priestley had developed a good deal in the last forty-eight hours.

He considered his next words with the care of an artist.

“Of course,” he said slowly, “you can see how this affects us. Our precautions must be intensified beyond measure.”

“Must they?” said Laura quite humbly.

“Indeed they must,” replied Mr. Priestley with energy. “Do you realise, my dear niece, that every policeman in the country is furnished with the most careful description of our two selves that it has been possible to obtain? Every step we take outside these rooms is fraught with danger. Simply fraught with danger,” repeated Mr. Priestley, pleased with the phrase.

“Is it?”

“Good gracious, yes, I should think it is. You, therefore, Laura,” continued Mr. Priestley in tones of unwonted command, “will not set foot outside these rooms at all.”

Laura stared at him. “But I must! I shall have to——”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” interrupted Mr. Priestley sternly. “You will stay here until I consider the coast to be clear. If you do not give me your word to do so, I shall lock you in your room and keep you here by force. This is no time for half-measures. I am not going to have my safety jeopardised, and my very life perhaps as well, by the whims and fancies of a foolish girl. Either you give me your solemn word to remain here until I accord you permission to go out, or I will call Barker and give him the necessary instructions at once. Which is it to be?” He glared at her through his glasses.

Laura gazed at him with open mouth. If anybody had ever presumed to address such peremptory commands to her before, she would have walked straight out of the place. But her nerve was frayed almost to snapping point. It was yet once more on the tip of her tongue to blurt out that the whole thing was a mistake: it wasn’t the real Crown Prince at all, and she could produce the alleged corpse and everything would be plain sailing. But dazed though she was, she realised perfectly well that it would not be all plain sailing. Mr. Priestley, for instance, would flatly refuse to credit her story, and no wonder; he would, she quite believed, use force if he considered it necessary. This was yet another new Mr. Priestley, and one of whom she felt really afraid.

Besides, even if she could induce him to believe the truth, what about all these other complications—policemen, and disappearing Crown Princes, and friends in the Foreign Office? There would be endless trouble before the affair was finally cleared up and the law satisfied of her own and Mr. Priestley’s innocence. Probably they would be brought to trial. At the very least they would be held in prison during the inquiry. Laura suddenly saw herself in a prison frock, embroidered with broad arrows. Her nerve snapped. “I—I give you my solemn word,” she said huskily.

“If you break it,” said Mr. Priestley ominously.

“I won’t!” Laura squeaked, thoroughly frightened. Nobody had ever seen Laura thoroughly frightened before. Mr. Priestley was a very favoured mortal.

With a bound the normal Mr. Priestley jumped into the place of this grim stranger. “That’s all right then. That’s excellent. And now, my dear niece, you may show me those pretty frocks and things that I know you’re longing to display.”

It was the last thing his dear niece was longing to do, but she rose, on somewhat shaky limbs, and tottered off to her room.

“Call me when the fashion-show is ready,” Mr. Priestley remarked benignly as she disappeared, and grinned naughtily after her eloquent back.

Draped professionally over the chairs in Laura’s bedroom, and less professionally on the bed, were frocks, coats, cloaks, stockings, hats, gloves, and other accessories, all the spring outfit, in fact, and some of the winter and last summer’s as well, except the undies, for which she had judged Mr. Priestley to be not quite old enough as yet despite his years—all arranged with the artless idea of affording pleasure to her benefactor. Laura cast a haggard eye over them as she walked over to the window and contemplated, with apparently deep interest, a blank wall. She was not sorry for the respite. She wanted to think.

Having thought madly for five minutes, she arrived at the brilliant conclusion of telepathy. Laura had flirted with telepathy before with Dora, but she had never believed in it very seriously; now she found herself doing so with the utmost conviction. After all, it was the only possible explanation. By some curious telepathic means Dora must have received the message “Crown Prince” at the very moment when the real Crown Prince was being murdered in some totally different spot. More, she must have received something like the actual circumstances of his death. Laura was now quite prepared to believe that the leader of the band of Communists had a broken nose, and even a nickname turning upon that peculiarity.

Of course she must stay in the flat. And anyhow, Cynthia knew where she was. She shivered. “The Secret Service, whose resources are simply unlimited.” Oh, what a fool she had been to get herself mixed up in that absurd joke. What an unutterable fool!

A gentle tap at the door interrupted her frank comments upon herself. “Is the fashion-show ready?” asked a voice.

Laura shook herself and forced a smile to her lips. At any rate she must pretend to be feeling brave, whatever was going on underneath. “Yes,” she called out. “Quite ready. Come in.”

“Well, well!” said Mr. Priestley, with proper admiration. “Delightful, Laura. Charming indeed. Now show them to me in detail. Well, well!”

If his adopted niece seemed a trifle distraite in her attention to the matter in hand, Mr. Priestley evidently did not notice it. His manner was utterly correct. He admired duly, he cocked his head on one side to consider the difficult point of whether saxe-blue really suited his niece better than jade-green, he said all the right things and surprisingly few of the wrong ones. In short, for a man introduced for the first time to this extremely delicate business, Mr. Priestley acquitted himself uncommonly well.

But if Mr. Priestley could, and did, take an intelligent interest in his niece’s hobby, Laura failed dismally when the rôles were reversed. Mr. Priestley led her back to the study and there informed her that, as she was evidently destined to be his secretary for rather longer than had been anticipated, she must buckle to and learn Latin at once if she was to be of any real use to him. Nor did he voice this proposition in a deprecating way, as last evening; he spoke it out boldly and firmly, so that it took on practically the air of a command.

“Besides,” added Mr. Priestley more kindly, “it will help to occupy your mind a little during the anxious time.”

Laura, far too crushed now to dream of objecting (oh, shades of that resourceful young woman in the tube to Maida Vale!) allowed herself to be settled at the table with Kennedy’s Latin Grammar in front of her and meekly received her orders to have the first and second declensions off pat before dinner-time. In case he was not back for that meal, Mr. Priestley added airily, she might dine at eight o’clock and master the third declension afterwards before going to bed. Mr. Priestley was clearly going to prove a sweating employer. A trade union of secretaries would have had a good deal to say about Mr. Priestley, it was plain.

“Not back?” said Laura, looking up from the distasteful book in front of her. “Surely you’re not going out, are you?”

With simple pride Mr. Priestley drew the large black beard from his pocket which Cynthia had taken him to buy immediately before she left him. He hooked it over his ears and beamed at his niece, looking like a cross between a Bolshevik and a black nanny-goat. Laura shuddered.

“I shall be safe enough in this, my dear,” said Mr. Priestley.

It flashed into Laura’s mind that he would be more likely to be arrested for causing a crowd to collect, but she no longer had the spirit to put it into words. In some strange way Mr. Priestley had taken autocratic control of the whole affair, and whatever she might say had no more weight than one of the hairs in Mr. Priestley’s beard. She knew this, but she did not resent it. It was a strange feeling to Laura to be in contact with somebody who ordered her about like a rather fatuous sort of dog, and disregarded her wishes and inclinations as though she were more of a hindrance in the scheme of things than a help; and to her amazement she found that she rather liked it. Mr. Priestley was not the only person in his flat who was finding out things he did not know about himself.

“Very well, Mr. Priestley,” was all she said.

“Uncle Matthew,” corrected Mr. Priestley, with severity.

“Uncle Matthew,” Laura repeated humbly.

Mr. Priestley almost strode out of the room.

Outside his own front-door he whisked the atrocious beard off his face and stowed it away in his pocket. Then he proceeded, with an unwontedly brisk air, to keep the appointment for which he had telegraphed nearly three hours ago. And as he proceeded Mr. Priestley smiled abandonedly.

That was on Monday, and thereafter nothing happened, as has already been said, until Thursday.

Perhaps, however, in Laura’s case this statement needs a certain qualification. Something did happen to Laura, and it was Latin grammar. Latin grammar happened to Laura all day long, and in the evenings as well. No pupil less anxious to master Latin grammar could have been found in any school in the country, yet through sheer force of will-power Mr. Priestley caused Laura in two days to learn the five declensions, quite a large proportion of the four conjugations, and to have more than a nodding acquaintance with the intricacies of the adjectives and pronouns.

“Regebam, regebas, regebat,” said Laura wearily on Wednesday evening, “regebamus, regebabitis——”

“Regebatis,” corrected Mr. Priestley relentlessly.

“Regebatis,” said Laura, “regebant.”

“Yes. Now the perfect.”

“Rexi, rexisti, rexit,” Laura droned, “rexeymus——”

“Rex-imus!”

“Rex-imus, rexistis, rexerunt.”

“Excellent! That’s fifth time I’ve heard you that tense, isn’t it?”

“The seventh,” said Laura colourlessly.

“The seventh? Dear, dear. Well, we’ve got it right at last. And now,” said Mr. Priestley with the air of one conferring a substantial favour, “I think we might actually go on to Syntax.”

“Oh?” said Laura, with the air of one wondering just where the favour lies.

Mr. Priestley picked up the Kennedy and fluttered its pages lovingly. “Vir bonus bonam uxorem habet,” he crooned. “‘The good man has a good wife.’ Vir bonus is the subject, you see, habet the verb, and bonam uxorem the object. A verb, of course, agrees with its subject in number and person. Just repeat that, please.”

“A verb, of course, agrees with its subject in number and person.”

“Yes, and an adjective, as I’ve told you already, agrees in gender, number, and case with the substantive it qualifies.”

“An adjective, as you’ve told me already, agrees in gender, number, and case with the substantive it qualifies,” repeated Laura listlessly. “May I go to bed now, please, Uncle Matthew?”

“Certainly not. We must master this first page of syntax before bedtime. It’s only just past ten o’clock. Veræ amicitiæ sempiternæ sunt. ‘True friendships are everlasting.’ That is another example of….”

Let us draw a veil.

It was on Thursday morning that Mr. Priestley burst his bombshell.

He had been gloomy and apprehensive at breakfast, starting nervously at trifles and refusing to give any reason for his agitation, and had gone out, disguised as a black nanny-goat, immediately afterwards. Laura’s nerves, already strained, naturally caused his anxiety to communicate itself to her. Poring over her Kennedy during the morning alone in the study, she was unable to assimilate a word. Vague terrors afflicted her, drastic plans for ending everything by flying from the country, or at least down to Duffley, flitted in and out of her mind like passengers in a tube lift. The farmer tilled his fields for her in vain, his wife fruitlessly looked after the house; even the news that Hannibal and Philopœmen were cut off by poison left her unmoved.

By the time Mr. Priestley returned, wild of eye and distraught of mien, half an hour before lunch-time, she had worked herself up to the pitch of tears; and for a young woman of Laura’s disposition there is no need to say more.

“We’re done for!” announced Mr. Priestley melodramatically. “They’re on our track. It’s only a question of hours.”

“Oh, no!” cried Laura.

Mr. Priestley clutched at his collar. “I can feel the rope round my neck already. Our arrest is imminent. Laura, the game’s up.”

They stared at each other with horrified eyes.

Now Laura knew perfectly well that Mr. Priestley was in no sort of danger really. She knew it, but she couldn’t realise it. To her it seemed by this time as if the truth could never be proved. Whatever she said, whatever George said, whatever any of them said would make no difference. They had plotted too well. They had staged a murder, and a murder had been committed. It was not the least use to say that their murder was not the real one. Who was going to believe that? They were caught helplessly and hopelessly in the trap of their own setting.

“Oh!” she wailed. “Can’t anything be done?”

“Yes!” said Mr. Priestley, in a low, tense voice. “There is just one hope for us. Consider the circumstances. Nobody except you saw me shoot him. Without you, there is no evidence against me except the constable’s, and I am told that a clever lawyer could make hay of that. It is you who are the stumbling-block, Laura.”

“Oh!” squeaked Laura, aghast at the implication of his words. “You’re not—you’re not going to shoot me too?”

Mr. Priestley hurriedly turned his face away. His shoulders quivered slightly. When he turned round again he had recovered his composure.

“No, Laura,” he said, neither sternly nor gently but with a curious blend of the two. “No, that is not what I meant. Fortunately there is no need to go to such extremes. It suits our case well enough to remember that a wife cannot give evidence against her husband, nor a husband against his wife.”

“A—a—a——”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Priestley gravely. “I have made all the necessary arrangements, and I have a special licence in my pocket. You are going to marry me at the registry office in Albemarle Street at ten o’clock to-morrow morning—if we are both still at liberty!”

Chapter XVII.
Awkward Predicament of Some Conspirators

On Wednesday Cynthia had taken another trip to London. She made no secret of it. She said quite plainly that she wanted to get away from this atmosphere of intrigue and anxiety, and she was therefore going up to see Edith Marryott, whom she hadn’t seen for simply ages. It is to be regretted that Cynthia had no intention whatever of going within two miles of Edith Marryott.

She took Alan with her, gave him ten shillings at Paddington, and told him to meet her there on the 5.49. Alan made a bee-line for the nearest call-box and had the ineffable joy of arranging to take a chorus-girl out to lunch. That the chorus-girl afterwards firmly insisted on paying both for her own lunch and for Alan’s too was a point which need not be laboured in subsequent conversations with Colebrook and Thomson minor.

Alan squandered five and ninepence of his ten shillings afterwards on a seat at the Jollity matinée, and later waited at the stage-door, thrilled to the soles of his boots. His beaker of heady pleasure was completed after that by being allowed to take his chorus-girl out to tea and pay for it, though the A.B.C. to which she insisted upon going did not seem quite to fit. The lady, however, assured him gravely that when not refreshing themselves with champagne and oysters, chorus-girls invariably go to A.B.C.’s, and it was all quite in order, and he accepted this information from her still excitingly grease-painted lips. Alan had the day of his life, and caught the 7.15 back to Duffley.

Cynthia and Alan were not missed at Duffley. Monica, for instance, was far too busy taking an intelligent interest in the workings of George’s car to miss them. Not in George himself, of course not, though he was interesting on the subject of cars, George was. And actresses. And the relations of a man and a girl these days. “Jolly nice, feeling one can be real pals with a girl nowadays. Rotten it must have been for those old Victorians, eh? What I mean is, a man likes to feel a girl can be a sort of pal, so to speak. Jolly to go out with and all that. Of course you can’t be pals with all girls, though. Fact is, I’ve never really met another one beside you that I could, Monica. Comic when you come to think of it, in a way, isn’t it? Here we are, just pals, all merry and bright, going out in the old bus and having a good time, and everything’s absolutely ripping. I say, Monica, I’m dashed glad you came down here, you know. I was getting bored stiff with Duffley, and that silly stunt of Guy’s was worse still. I mean to say, what I really wanted, I suppose, was a pal.”

And Monica listened very seriously and thought it all extremely original and clever of him. She did not introduce the subject of her soul because, luckily for George, she was not that sort of girl; but she inaugurated some very deep conversation about carburetters and magnetos, which came to much the same thing.

Unlike London, Thursday morning at Duffley was peacefulness itself. Then, on Thursday afternoon, came the Chief Constable, bringing with him a tall stranger. The stranger was dressed in a suit notable more for its wearing qualities than its cut, and he had large boots and a disconcertingly piercing eye. In a voice of undeniable authority he requested the presence of Guy and Mr. Doyle in the library. Polite but mystified, they humoured him.

Then the Colonel spoke. He said: “Gentlemen, this is Superintendent Peters, of Scotland Yard. He wants to ask you a few questions.”

Guy and Mr. Doyle did not exchange glances, because neither dared look at the other; but something like the same thought was in both their minds. The thought might be represented in general terms as a large question-mark, and, more particularly, by: “Good Lord! Is this going to prove the cream of the whole jest, or—is it not?”

For at least ten minutes the newcomer took no notice at all of the two, while the Colonel explained in minute detail exactly what had happened in the room, the position of the body, and all other necessary details. Guy and Mr. Doyle found this a trifle disconcerting. From being keyed up suddenly to the topmost pitch of their powers they found themselves beginning, through sheer inaction, to waver on their top note.

When the Colonel, in his description of events, reached the Constable’s entry upon the scene and his handling of the apparent culprits, the Superintendent cut him short with some abruptness.

“Yes, yes,” he said, with a touch of impatience. “We needn’t go into that, Colonel.”

The Colonel’s surprise was obvious. “But Graves is the only witness we have for those two,” he said.

“And a perfectly unimportant witness,” snapped the other, in the best detective-story manner. “Except as witnesses themselves, these two have no bearing on the business. Their story was perfectly true; like your man, they came on the scene immediately after the shot had been fired. If the constable had had the intelligence of a louse he’d have realised that and not frightened them off as he did. We’ve traced ’em all right now, but it wasn’t any too easy.”

“Good gracious! This puts rather a different complexion on things. Who are they, then?”

“The man’s name is Priestley.” If Guy and Mr. Doyle started violently, apparently the Superintendent did not notice. “Priestley. He’s got a flat in Half Moon Street. Well-to-do bachelor, with quiet tastes. Last man in the world to do anything of this sort, we’ve satisfied ourselves on that point all right. The girl’s his cousin. As a matter of fact he employs her, out of charity, no doubt, as his secretary. Perfectly respectable, both of them.”

This time Guy and Mr. Doyle did exchange glances. It was beyond the powers of human self-restraint not to do so. Each read in the other’s eye bewilderment charged with faint alarm. “What in the deuce is happening?” eye asked eye, and received no answer.

“You haven’t found the Crown Prince’s body yet, I suppose?” the Colonel ventured, as the Superintendent gazed moodily out through the French windows towards the river.

“We have, though,” the man from Scotland Yard replied grimly. “Just as we expected, on a boat passing Greenwich.”

“Bound for Bosnogovina?”

“Exactly. We thought they’d want to show it to the people, to prove he really was dead; and that’s just what happened.”

“Ah!”

Again Guy and Mr. Doyle exchanged glances. This time the glances said to each other: “Have they gone mad, or have we?”

There was a very intense silence.

Suddenly the Superintendent wheeled round and fixed Guy with his disconcerting pale blue eyes. “You two gentlemen stay here, please.” He walked abruptly out into the garden, followed by the Colonel.

“I don’t think,” observed Mr. Doyle with some care, “that I quite like that gentleman, Nesbitt. I don’t like any of him much, but least of all his eyes.”

Guy smiled, a little unsecurely. “Was I totally mistaken, Doyle, or did he murmur something to our friend about a dead Crown Prince’s body being recovered off Greenwich en route for Bosnogosomethingorother? I think I must have been totally mistaken.”

“If you were, then I was too. I don’t think we can both have been, you know.”

“Then what,” said Guy, “in the name of all that’s unholy was he talking about?”

“There you’ve chased me up a gum-tree,” admitted Mr. Doyle.

They looked out of the window to where the Superintendent was intently examining the mass of footprints.

“It’s pusillanimous, no doubt,” said Mr. Doyle, “but do you know the effect that man has on me? He makes me almost wish we hadn’t made those beautiful footprints. He doesn’t look to me the sort of person to take a harmless joke at all well.”

After a few minutes the Superintendent rose and engaged the Colonel in talk. The next thing was that both walked briskly to the gate that led into George’s garden and passed out of sight.

George was at home that afternoon. Cynthia had insisted upon Monica going out to pay a couple of calls with her; she had had to insist very hard, but she had carried her point. George, drawing the line quite properly at calls, was at home.

“There’s two gentlemen to see you, sir,” said George’s elderly daily maid. (She had rabbit teeth, very little hair, puce elbows, and a very large before-and-after effect; when entering a doorway she contrived both to precede and to follow herself. She was not even a maid; she was a cook, and her name was Mrs. Bagsworthy. We shall never meet her again.)

The two gentlemen followed her announcement. They did not insist upon the ceremony of awaiting George’s permission to enter. They had no intention of consulting George’s wishes on the matter.

As before, the Colonel introduced his companion, who at once fixed George with his steely eye. George began to wish that some one was there to hold his hand.

“Where were you last Saturday evening, Mr. Howard?” demanded the Superintendent, immediately after his introduction, not even pausing to make the usual inquiries as to George’s health.

“Over at the N—— here!” said George.

The Superintendent did not say: “You lie!” but George did not quite know why not. He might just as well have done.

Instead he said: “Do you know that the Crown Prince of Bosnogovina was murdered at some place on the Thames between here and Oxford on Saturday night, and his body embarked on a large motor-boat out of which it was recovered this morning off Greenwich?”

“Great Scott, no!” said George, with perfect truth.

“You did not know that he was murdered in the next house, while you say you were sitting in here? You heard nothing—no shot, no cry, no shouting or confusion?”

“No,” dithered George. “I—no, I—that is, no.”

The Superintendent bored a neat hole in George’s forehead with his gimlet eyes. “Isn’t that very strange, Mr. Howard? Isn’t it exceedingly strange that you heard nothing?”

“Er—yes—I suppose it is. Er—frightfully strange. Must be, mustn’t it? Er—how extraordinary!”

The Superintendent continued to bore holes in George in silence. George wished he wouldn’t.

“I have a warrant to search this house, Mr. Howard,” he snapped suddenly. “Do you wish to see it?”

“Good Lord, no,” said George, apparently much shocked at the suggestion. Fancy asking him if he wanted to see a warrant to search his house! How frightfully indelicate!

“Very well. Kindly go over to the library of the house next door, and wait there till I come.”

“I say, you know,” George protested feebly in spite of his alarm. There was good sterling stuff in George. “I say, you know, what’s all this about? Searching my house and—and ordering me about and—and——” His words faded away under the menacing light in the Superintendent’s eyes.

“I think you will find it better to do as I suggest, Mr. Howard,” said the Superintendent, oh, so gently.

George did it.

Guy and Mr. Doyle received him with effusive jocularity, in which, nevertheless, a somewhat forced note was detectable. On hearing his account of the interview, the jocularity disappeared altogether.

“But this is absurd!” Guy said blankly. “This fellow seems not only to be taking our silly story as solemn truth, but to be dovetailing it in with something that really has happened.”

“But my dear chap,” expostulated Mr. Doyle, “we can’t take it seriously.”

“You’ll take that superintendent chap seriously when he gets on your tail, Pat,” observed George with feeling.

There was an uneasy pause. “Bosnogo—what did he say?” remarked Guy. “Has anybody ever heard of the place?”

“I say,” said Doyle, “I wonder what it really is all about?”

They went on wondering. Upon their speculations entered Dora.

“Hallo!” said Dora without joy. “Hallo, you are here, are you? Good. I was afraid you’d all have been carried off to jail.”

“Jail?” echoed the others, jumping nimbly.

“What have you come down for, Dora?” asked Mr. Doyle.

“Because I was brought,” said Dora shortly. “I’m under arrest, or something ridiculous. For being an accessory to the murder of the Crown Prince of Bosnogovina, or some extraordinary tale. Have you any idea what’s happening, anybody? This really is rather gorgeous, isn’t it?” She laughed without exuberant mirth.

“Frightfully,” agreed Mr. Doyle gloomily.

“I’m afraid,” said Guy, “very much afraid, that we shall have to tell them the truth. It’s a pity, but there it is. Unless, of course, you’d like to carry the thing on to the end and sample the skilly, would you? I’ve always wondered what skilly was really like.”

“If you mean, go to prison,” Dora said with energy, “most certainly not, even to help your experiments, Guy. I’m sorry, but I’ve got a complex about prisons. I don’t like them.”

George looked relieved. He had a complex about prisons too. Perhaps it ran in the family.

“Come, Dora,” observed Mr. Doyle, jesting manfully, “you——”

“I say,” said George. “Look out. Here they come.”

The Superintendent and Colonel Ratcliffe were crossing the lawn. In one hand the former held a pair of boots.

“By Jove,” said Guy softly, “I wonder if this is why old Foster was arrested so mysteriously. I suppose we ought to have had Foster rather on our consciences, but as I’ve always said, to be arrested was just the very thing that Foster needed.”

Amid a respectful silence the Superintendent walked up to George. “Do you admit that these are your boots?” he asked curtly.

George looked at the boots. Undoubtedly they were his. On the other hand, was he to admit the fact? He glanced at the others, but their blank faces gave him no help. “Yes,” he said. “At least—well—yes, I—I think so.”

“Ah!” said the Superintendent.

Guy came forward with an easy smile. “I’m afraid, Superintendent,” he said smoothly, “that we’ve got a confession to make. I can’t imagine what’s been happening elsewhere, but apparently we planned rather better than we knew. The most amazing coincidence——”

“Have you anything you wish to say?” cut in the Superintendent in properly incisive tones.

“I have,” said Guy, unperturbed. “The whole thing was a joke. This is the truth.” He went on to give a detailed account of it.

At first the faces of his fellow-conspirators showed a certain relief. Though none of them would have admitted it, except George, they were all getting tired of the jest; it had been pleasant while it lasted, but life would become more simple without it. As Guy proceeded, however, relief gave place to growing uneasiness. The Superintendent was perhaps not a tactful man, and the complete incredulity with which he listened to Guy’s words was only too visible on his countenance.

“And is that all you’ve got to say, Mr. Nesbitt?” he asked, when Guy, a little haltingly as he saw the very poor impression he was making, had brought his story to an end.

“That’s all, yes. I’m sorry.”

The Superintendent seemed sorry too—sorry that any one should really think it any use to waste his time with such a hotch-potch of nonsense. He rubbed his chin and looked at Guy more in pity than in anger. The others hung on his words.

“Then according to you, Mr. Nesbitt, you don’t know that the Crown Prince of Bosnogovina was murdered here on Saturday night? You thought it was just a bit of play-acting, did you? You mixed up the parties that did it with your own friends?”

“But he wasn’t murdered here! I’ve just explained.”

“This is incredible, Superintendent,” exclaimed Mr. Doyle. “You surely aren’t seriously imagining that——”

“That will do,” snapped the Superintendent, without any pretence of courtesy. “Any observations you wish to make can be put to the magistrates to-morrow morning.”

“Magistrates!” gasped four unhappy mouths.

“You don’t mean,” cried Dora, “that—that——”

The Superintendent eyed her grimly. “May I remind you, Miss Howard, that you are already under arrest?” he observed. “You will undergo a formal identification by a Mr. Foster, whom we have been compelled to keep in detention for his own safety, as soon as we get to the police-station; and——”

“Foster?” squeaked Mr. Doyle. “His own safety? What on earth are you talking about now?”

The Superintendent was very patient. “No doubt it had never occurred to you that, apart from the constable, who only saw the Crown Prince’s dead body, and two other persons who had nothing to do with the murder, Mr. Foster is our only witness, did it?”

Guy also was very patient. “My dear good man,” he said very patiently, “haven’t I already told you that this is our Crown Prince, very much alive and no doubt longing to be kicking?”

George smiled deprecatingly. He hadn’t the least idea what was happening, but he did realise that Guy’s tone was not calculated to soothe the Superintendent. “That’s right,” he mumbled. “Really quite true, you know. I’m not dead—not a bit of it.”

The Superintendent looked unimpressed.

“Might I ask, then, what you intend to do with us?” Guy inquired in silky tones.

“Certainly, Mr. Nesbitt,” replied the Superintendent briskly. “Take you with me.” He looked round the room with his penetrating blue eyes, and added in an official voice: “Guy Nesbitt, Patrick Doyle, George Howard, I arrest you on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of the Crown Prince of Bosnogovina in this room on the night of the 10th instant, either as principals or as accessories before and after the fact, and I warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you at your trial.”

“But good Heavens,” spluttered Mr. Doyle, “we’re not—not Bosnogovinians, or whatever the place is.”

“No? But you speak the language, don’t you? You must remember that we have our evidence. And the constable has already identified you, without your knowledge, as the persons who removed the Crown Prince’s body from this room.”

“But, my dear good man, we’ve explained that. Don’t you see what a colossal idiot you’re making of yourself?”

“That’s my affair,” retorted the Superintendent, unmoved. “By the way, don’t attempt any funny business, any of you. The Colonel and I are both armed.” He took a whistle from his pocket and blew it shrilly. Two large men at once entered the French windows from the garden and stood as if on guard just inside. Another, whom Dora recognised as the man who had brought her down, came in from the passage outside.

This latter was not an imposing figure, even for a policeman in plain clothes. He was short and rather round, he wore a neatly trimmed black beard cut in a point and a pair of enormous horn-rimmed spectacles.

The same thought seemed to have occurred to Guy, for he nudged Mr. Doyle, and remarked: “Cheer up, Pat, you’ll get a lot of copy out of this. Look at that fellow, for instance. Did you ever hear of any one like it outside a detective story? I never dreamed these chaps existed in real life.”

It was a pity that the attention of Guy and Mr. Doyle was thus engaged, because even the Superintendent’s lips twitched spasmodically as his underling entered the room. The next minute, however, his face was as stern as before as he threw this newcomer a brief nod and remarked: “Carry on, Bateman.”

Bateman carried on. From the pocket of his large overcoat he produced, with a slightly apologetic air, two pairs of handcuffs, one link of each he proceeded to lock round either of Guy’s wrists. Unfortunately Guy was so busy looking mockingly contemptuous that he quite failed to notice the unusual clumsiness with which the operation was being performed. In the same way neither did Mr. Doyle nor George when they in turn were tethered each to one of Guy’s wrists. None of the three offered any physical resistance, because they were not going to spoil a good case by losing their heads; but Mr. Doyle suddenly found his tongue, and with it several pithy things which he wished to say to this dunderheaded Superintendent. He said them.

“The detective stories always make the chap from Scotland Yard a perfect fool,” concluded Mr. Doyle bitterly, “and my God! I’m not surprised.”

“Shut up, Pat,” said Dora crossly. “He’ll find out all in good time the fool he’s making of himself. What’s worrying me is that apparently I’ve got to miss the show to-night. I shall be getting the sack soon if this goes on.”

“The sack, Dora?” said a pleasant voice from the door. “Well, my dear, what are you doing—good gracious!” Cynthia stared at the linked trio in amazement. “What is happening?”

“This is Superintendent Peters of Scotland Yard,” said her husband pleasantly. “He’s labouring under a slight delusion, we think.”

“He’s the biggest idiot Scotland Yard ever turned out,” Mr. Doyle put it less tactfully.

George grinned ruefully and did not put it at all. A cautious man, George.

“Is this Mrs. Nesbitt, Colonel?” asked the Superintendent.

The Colonel nodded.

“Cynthia Nesbitt,” the Superintendent said snappily, “I arrest you …” He continued the speech as before, and again nodded to the horn-rimmed Bateman.

That representative of the law drew yet another pair of handcuffs from his pocket, small ladies’ this time, and in deathly silence proceeded to yoke Cynthia and Dora together—Cynthia apparently too dumbfounded to resist, Dora submitting with outward disdain and inward turbulence.

“Is that really necessary, Superintendent?” Guy asked in a voice of ice.

The Superintendent did not even trouble to reply.

“My God,” Mr. Doyle boiled over on seeing his lady thus ignominiously treated, “I’ll get you turned out of the force, you miserable bungler, if there’s any power left in The Courier’s elbow at all.”

“But Guy!” said Cynthia, breathing a little quickly. “This is simply farcical.”

“That’s just what we’ve been pointing out to the idiot, my dear.”

“Colonel!” appealed Cynthia.

The Colonel shook his head. “Matter’s out of my hands, I’m afraid, Mrs. Nesbitt,” he replied gruffly.

“I told you so, Guy!” Cynthia cried. “I told you it would end like this.”

“Make a note of that admission, Bateman,” the Superintendent remarked with satisfaction. “Robinson, march ’em off. Bateman, you’ll take the women in the other car to Abingchester. Right!”

The two watchers by the door approached. They were burly men, both, and they had the advantage of having their wrists free.

“Now then, step lively,” said one.

“Come along, you,” said the other. “Jump to it.”

“But hang it all, Superintendent,” said Guy, “you must let us pack a bag first. Colonel, this is——”

“Step lively, you,” said the first watcher, and pushed.

“Jump to it,” urged the second, and pulled.

The five passed out of the room; the Superintendent and the Colonel followed them. In the road was a large car. It was a very large car, and the seven just managed to get in. They drove off.

Five hundred yards farther on they passed Monica and Alan, who had been sent into the village on a quite unnecessary errand.

“Hi, George!” cried Monica. “Where are you off to? I thought you were going to——”

But George, grinning feebly, had been swept past.

“Can’t you let old George alone for five minutes?” asked Alan disgustedly, and went on to be very brotherly indeed.

From a window of the house Detective Bateman watched the result of Alan’s brotherliness with an interested eye before hurrying back to the library.

“They’ve gone,” he said. “And I think your brother and sister are coming back. I’m sure it’s your brother and sister,” he added with a smile.

“Oh,” said Cynthia. “Well, we’d better get this absurd thing off then.” She extended a slender wrist, and Detective Bateman did something with a key. The wrist was freed. “I think,” Cynthia smiled, “that Dora really ought to keep hers on a lot longer. However, perhaps we mustn’t be too harsh with her.”

“What on earth——?” cried Dora, finding her voice with an effort as the detective bent over her wrist in turn.

“Yes, dear,” said Cynthia sweetly. “Quite. By the way, I don’t think you’ve ever met Mr. Priestley, have you? Take that dreadful beard off, Mr. Priestley, and be introduced properly.”

For a couple of moments there was silence; then babel, produced largely by Dora, ensued.

“Cynthia, you loathsome person,” observed Miss Howard, some two minutes later, “just be quiet a minute and let me get this straight. You say the Superintendent really isn’t a superintendent at all, but a friend of Mr. Priestley’s?”

“Quite correct,” beamed that gentleman. “His name is Adams. We were at school together.”

Dora digested this. “And the other two are friends too?”

“All friends of mine,” agreed Mr. Priestley, without a single sign of compunction.

“And you persuaded the Colonel into the business, you vamp?”

“I don’t think he needed much persuading,” smiled the vamp. “He felt, you see, that he had a score or two to work off on his own account. He’s rather a dear, when you get to know him.”

Dora disregarded the endearing qualities of the Colonel. “But why all this?” she asked plaintively. “That’s what I don’t get. Why turn round and bite the hand that plotted with you, so to speak?”

“But no hand did plot with me, Dawks dear. I didn’t want to plot at all. I ought to have put my foot down much more firmly that evening and forbidden it altogether, instead of allowing myself to be overruled so weakly. My dear, I hardly got a wink of sleep for two nights, thinking what poor Mr. Priestley must be suffering.”

Poor Mr. Priestley, who had scarcely suffered at all, introduced a deprecating air into his steady beam, as if to apologise for this waste of sleeplessness.

“In fact,” continued Cynthia, “I thought the whole thing very heartless, and as soon as I could see a way of turning the plot against its own makers I naturally took it. I thought my Guy and your Pat needed a lesson.”

“But what’s going to happen to them? The Colonel isn’t really going to put them in prison, is he?”

“No,” said Cynthia, not without regret. “I tried to persuade him to (it would have been so good for all of them), but he said that was really going too far. So he’s going to take them up to the middle of Harpenfield Woods and—leave them there!”

“You heartless woman!”

“Oh, they’ll be all right,” said the heartless woman serenely. “It’s only twelve miles. Of course they won’t be able to get the handcuffs off, because the key’s here. But then, they never arranged for a key for poor Mr. Priestley at all. I expect them home in plenty of time for dinner.”

“Well!” said Dora, giggling in spite of all decent feeling at the idea of her brother, her fiancé, and her best friend’s husband walking along the lanes hand in hand. “I don’t think you’ll be very popular for a time, Cyntie dearest. And what about Laura?”

“Laura,” said Cynthia, “I’m leaving entirely to Mr. Priestley. As at present arranged, they’re going to be married at ten o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“What?” shrieked Dora, and then more explanations had to be unfolded. “Oh, well,” Dora said resignedly at the end of them, “I suppose we all deserved it. Is it any use apologising to you, Mr. Priestley, or would you take it as one more insult?”

“There’s no need, Miss Howard, I assure you. Pat was quite right: I did want waking up. I realise that now.”

“I’m sure you’re very wide-awake at present, certainly,” observed Miss Howard crisply. “And you got me all the way down from town to let me be handcuffed for two minutes, Cinders?”

“Oh, no, dear. That’s only part of your punishment. You’ve got the worst bit to come. I’m going to take you down to the Fosters now, to eat as big a slice of humble pie as you can manage. It’s about your visit to Mr. Foster’s tool-shed on Monday. You’ve got to come and tell Mrs. Foster that you’re not her husband’s—— Oh, well,” said Cynthia airily, “I can tell you all that on the way.”

“That I’m not what?” asked Dora, mystified.

“Yes, dear. Soon. But——”

“Cyntie, I think you’re the absolute limit!” said a voice from the door. “I don’t mind telling you I’ve been listening and heard the lot. You really are the outside edge.”

“My dear Monica,” Cynthia said in surprise, “why?”

“Well,” said her indignant sister, “you know perfectly well the whole thing was Guy and Pat’s fault. Why drag George into it? He had nothing to do with it. He told me he hated the whole thing, and wouldn’t have gone in for it at all if Guy hadn’t made him.”

“Oh, did he?” Cynthia said sweetly. “Oh!” She gazed at the flushed face of her sister with a good deal more interest than these simple words appeared to warrant. Perhaps Monica felt this too, for she turned a deeper colour and then marched with dignity from the room.

Dora looked at Cynthia and vulgarly winked. “Do you think so?” she asked cryptically.

“I’m sure of it,” said Cynthia, with complete conviction.

“Good!” said Dora; and to Mr. Priestley’s astonishment they kissed warmly.

“Well,” said Cynthia, when this ceremony had been performed, “we’d better be off too. You’ll be going back at once, Mr. Priestley? You’re sure you won’t stop and see the wanderers return?”

“I think perhaps not,” Mr. Priestley said with discretion. “I shall leave you to brave that storm, Mrs. Nesbitt. I shall have one of my own to weather at home, remember.”

Dora giggled in a way that reminded Mr. Priestley most delectably of Laura. “What are you really going to do with my erring sister, Mr. Priestley? You won’t be too hard on her, will you?”

“It’s all I’ve been able to do to make him hard enough,” smiled Cynthia.

They shook hands with Mr. Priestley. Dora, it was evident, bore him no malice. Dora and Laura were very exceptional young women. Mr. Priestley had reached the gate into the road when Cynthia, as if on a sudden impulse, darted after him.

“Use that special licence of yours, Mr. Priestley!” she whispered, holding that astonished gentleman by the sleeve. “Don’t enlighten Laura at all—marry her instead! That’s my advice.”

Cynthia then darted back again, sailing over her shoulder.

“Come round to the garage,” Dora said to her, “and I’ll run us up in George’s car.”

Dora was a poor prophet. As they came in sight of the garage it was just possible to see George’s car disappearing neatly through the gateway into the road. At the wheel was Monica. For a pupil who, according to the frequently expressed opinions of both herself and her teacher, required very many more lessons before she could be trusted to take the car out alone, she seemed to be managing the rather difficult exit very capably.

“Monica!” called Cynthia.

“Monica!” shrieked Dora.

Monica did not reply, but the car accelerated with a bound which almost lifted it off the ground.

The two looked at each other. “Apparently we have to walk after all,” said Cynthia.

“Harpenfield Woods, I suppose,” said Dora sadly.

“It’s funny how being in love seems to warp a female’s sense of humour,” Cynthia mused. “I don’t think it does men’s.”

They set out towards their goal where a strangely humbled Mr. Foster was anxiously awaiting them.

Chapter XVIII.
Mr. Priestley Solves His Last Problem

Mr. Priestley returned to London with emotions that were decidedly mixed. His delight in his successful revenge was almost swamped in the feelings caused by Cynthia’s utterly unscrupulous suggestion. He knew, of course, that he could never act upon it: to do so would be the act of a cad, a poltroon, and a blackguard. But there was no harm in allowing it to titillate his mind.

Laura eternally in that empty arm-chair…. Laura available every night and every morning for kisses that need not be in the least avuncular…. Laura’s smile, Laura’s pretty face, the way Laura’s eyebrows fascinatingly just did not meet when she was perplexed, his to contemplate for the rest of his life…. Mr. Priestley sighed and, having looked on this picture, looked on that. Those rooms of his without Laura in them…. Only Barker…. He and Barker, alone together for ever more…. Mr. Priestley sighed again.

And why, Mr. Priestley put it to himself, had he been at such pains actually to obtain a real, genuine special licence, made out in his own name and that of Laura Howard? True, Cynthia had made rather a point of it, but it was really quite unnecessary. Just to mention that he had one would have been quite enough. He had not even shown it to her. It was very strange. Why had he done that?

Mr. Priestley was an honest man, even with himself. He knew quite well why he had done it. Because he wanted very badly indeed to marry Laura, and the breathless thrill he had obtained by buying a special licence made out in her name had been cheap at the price.

He reached his rooms in a thoroughly unhappy state. His triumph at Duffley was as dust and ashes in his mouth. Dust and ashes make very poor eating. For, of course, when Laura heard his story, she would naturally have nothing more to do with him. She was a high-spirited girl, and—— Of course she wouldn’t.

Laura received him with undisguised relief. During his absence she had succeeded in working herself up into a very pretty state of nerves. In the old days Laura and nerves were two unmixable components, like fire and water, or stockbrokers and water, to put it more forcibly; now she felt she could write an encyclopedia on them and then only have touched the fringe of her knowledge.

“Oh, Matthew!” she exclaimed, the moment Mr. Priestley entered the study. “Thank goodness you’re still all right! I’d made sure you’d been arrested this time.”

Mr. Priestley looked at her wistfully. What a low hound he was! It was perfectly right and proper for Laura to play jokes upon him, of course; but for him to divert the joke to back-fire upon its own originator! A terribly low hound.

“Would you have been sorry if I had, Laura?” he asked.

“You know I should. I—I should never have forgiven myself,” said Laura, who during the communings with her own soul that afternoon had reached at any rate one sensible decision. “You see, it’s—it’s all my own fault. I’ve been on the verge of telling you the truth a hundred times, and goodness only knows why I never did.” She paused awkwardly. “You see,” she blurted out, “the whole thing started as just a silly joke.”

“A joke?” echoed Mr. Priestley stupidly. Somehow this was a development he had not anticipated.

“Yes,” Laura continued rapidly. “I don’t dare wonder what you’re going to think of me, considering how kind you’ve been and—and everything, but this is the truth.” She proceeded to tell it.

Mr. Priestley listened with one ear, his other busy with the almost audible buzzing of his own brain. What was Laura working up to? What was he going to do when she had worked up to it? What—what—what?

Laura went on, excusing nothing, glossing over nothing, pouring upon her own devoted head every drop of blame.

“And now this other extraordinary affair crops up,” she concluded, and mentioned her telepathic theory. “That must be the explanation. It’s quite possible, isn’t it? Oh, Mr. Priestley——”

“Matthew,” interjected Mr. Priestley automatically.

“Matthew, will you ever forgive me?”

Mr. Priestley looked dumbly at the contrite spectacle before him. He did not speak because every bone was busy telling him that this was not Laura’s climax. What was coming next he had not the faintest idea, but he did not wish to commit himself.

“Of course,” continued Laura, unforgiven, “I know that if—if we were arrested we’ve only got to tell the truth, and we’ve got all the others to back us up; but what I don’t know is how long it would be before the authorities believed us. Naturally I’ve known all the time that we’re not in any danger, but, on the other hand, we certainly are in a mess. What your friend at the Foreign Office told you shows that we’re in for a terrible lot of bother, to say the very least.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Priestley mechanically. “Very least.” What was she working up to?

“And so,” said Laura, “considering that it’s all my fault, and—and I let you in for it all, I will, if it’s any use to you, I——”

“Yes?” helped Mr. Priestley breathlessly.

Laura gulped. “I will marry you to-morrow morning at the registry office if you really want me to,” she said with a rush.

Something, stretched already to snapping-point, suddenly gave way inside Mr. Priestley. He didn’t know it, but it was his conscience.

His face one large pink beam, he gathered the unready Laura into his arms and kissed her ardently. “You darling girl!” he exclaimed. “You dearest, darling, sweet girl!”

“Matthew!” gasped the sweet girl. “You don’t mean that you——”

“Love you?” beamed Mr. Priestley, far too excited to be self-conscious. “Indeed, yes. I’ve loved you ever since you let me stay in the bedroom that night. It was darling and sweet of you, like everything else you do.”

For some obscure reason Laura made no effort to release herself. “And you don’t mind the—the other thing?” she asked, vividly conscious of certain of her actions with regard to Mr. Priestley which had been anything but darling or sweet. “The way I deceived you, and took advantage of your good nature?”

“Dear me, no. Most natural. Charmingly high-spirited of you.”

“Well,” said Laura a little dryly, “it’s rather lucky you like me, isn’t it? Considering we’ve got to get married apparently.”

“Laura,” said Mr. Priestley, ceasing to beam, “I—I suppose you don’t happen to—well, to like me a little bit, too, do you?”

Feminine emotion is a delicate instrument, and no one can expect to play on a delicate instrument without practice. To Mr. Priestley’s consternation Laura burst into unexpected tears, tore herself from his arms, and ran from the room, crying out as she did so: “Good Heavens, I—I’m marrying you, aren’t I? What more do you want?”

Mr. Priestley stared after her as if imagining his eyes to be magnets and able to draw her back again. Finding they did not work in this way, he hurried after her. Her bedroom door was locked and Mr. Priestley, whispering urgently outside that he had something most important to tell her that would alter everything and wouldn’t she please come back and hear it, met with nothing but pointed, if tearful requests to go away. Looking round after three minutes’ fruitless work, he caught Barker’s disapproving but interested eye on him from the kitchen door. Barker’s eye succeeded where Laura’s entreaties had failed. Mr. Priestley went away, his urgent news untold.

Seventeen times during the course of the evening did he return to whisper at Laura’s door, seventeen times he retired baffled. Only once did Laura open it, and that was to pull in a loaded dinner-tray which Barker, surmising madly, had placed on the floor outside.

Mr. Priestley spent a miserable evening. Later on he went, in the deepest dejection, to bed.

But not to sleep. And as he turned restlessly from side to side and the thought of never seeing Laura again, after he had once told her the truth, grew more and more unbearable. Temptation came to Matthew Priestley. He struggled with it; he struggled with it manfully for a very long time (until four minutes past three, to be utterly accurate); and then Temptation, as it usually does, won. He would marry Laura to-morrow, as Cynthia had suggested. He would make sure of her first, and let the future look after itself. Oh, base Mr. Priestley!

Breakfast (which he took alone) found him confirmed in his turpitude. As he poured out his own coffee he knew he could not do without Laura and was going to stick at nothing to get her; as he passed himself the marmalade he told himself that all was fair in love and war; as he gazed at the unoccupied place beside him he tried, half-heartedly, to mitigate his villainy with the reflection that even marriage is not irrevocable; if Laura objected too strenuously, she could remain a wife in name only until the divorce was through. As he poured out his second cup of coffee he knew that he had not the faintest intention of letting Laura remain a wife in name only, and didn’t care a rap how base he was.

Pat Doyle would have been delighted. Mr. Priestley’s days of turniphood were done with forever. It was no snail who folded up Mr. Priestley’s napkin and banged it down on the table with a thud that made the crockery jump.

“Good gracious, Matthew dear,” remarked a voice at the door. “I hope you’re not going to do that to me after we’re married.”

Mr. Priestley spun round. In the doorway, cool, smiling, astonishingly cheerful, stood Laura, already hatted, coated and gloved. He gaped at her.

“Good-morning,” said Laura, approaching him.

“Good-morning,” mumbled Mr. Priestley.

Laura tilted her face a little more obviously. “Aren’t you going to kiss me? It’s the last time you’ll be supposed to kiss an unmarried girl, you know. After this there’ll be nothing but humdrum married kisses for you. I warn you, I shall be terribly wifely.”

“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Priestley, kissing her gingerly. Was this the same girl who had fled last night, weeping at the bare idea of accompanying him to a registry office this morning?

“Oughtn’t we to be starting?” said Laura happily. “You were very late for breakfast, you know, considering it’s your wedding-morning. ‘Tra-la-la-a-a-a! for ’tis my we-hedding morning!’” She hummed a bar or two of The Yeoman’s Wedding with a roguish smile.

With some difficulty Mr. Priestley remembered that he was a villain. “I’ll get my hat on,” he said gruffly, and marched out.

Laura went with him into the tiny hall, helped him on with his coat, brushed his hat, and gave him his gloves. “Of course,” she said, “by rights I ought to wait till we get back before doing this: it’s so very wifely, isn’t it? By the way, dear, have you got the ring?”

Mr. Priestley reminded himself that he was a blackguard. “Er—no,” he admitted. “I’m afraid I’d never thought of it.” Mr. Priestley may have been a blackguard, but he was a very inefficient one.

With complete composure Laura slipped off one of her own and gave it to him. “We can use that, and get the real one later. It’s very irregular, but I do hope it won’t be unlucky. Still, you could hardly be expected to think of everything, poor dear, could you? Forgive my asking, but have you got the licence?”

Mr. Priestley beamed. Then he remembered that he was a cad and stopped beaming. Cads never beam. “Yes,” he said brusquely. “I——” He felt in his breast-pocket. “God bless my soul, I’ve left it in the other suit!” A most inferior cad, Mr. Priestley.

In due course Laura produced him at the registry office, complete with ring and licence. On the steps of it were Dora, George, Pat Doyle, Cynthia, Guy, Monica, and Alan. They raised a hearty cheer as the taxi drew up and its occupants emerged.

“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Priestley, and he had never said it with more feeling.

Cynthia hurried forward and drew him aside. “I told the others, and we thought we’d come up just in case you did take my advice,” she whispered. “I’m delighted, Mr. Priestley! And don’t bother—nobody will say a word to Laura. Come along inside.”

Mr. Priestley looked at Laura. Undoubtedly she was just as bewildered at seeing their escort as himself. She did not look very pleased either. Laura did not often blush, but she was making up for lost time now. The party trooped inside.

And there Mr. Priestley and his Laura were, without a shadow of doubt, married as tightly as the law could do it.

“I’ve booked a private room and something in the way of a wedding-breakfast at the Trafalgar Square Hotel, Priestley,” said Guy, amid the back-clapping and kissing later, as Mr. Priestley was wondering dazedly whether he ought to smack Dora on the back and kiss Pat Doyle, or smack Cynthia on the back and kiss the registrar. “You take Laura along in a taxi, and we’ll follow.”

Somehow this seemed to happen.

“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Priestley, still dazed.

“The idiots!” said Laura, half-way between laughter and tears.

Mr. Priestley nerved himself for his effort. He knew that the truth was bound to come out at the hotel, and he wanted to know his fate in private. “Laura, my darling,” be began very nervously, “I’m afraid I have a confession to make. I—I——” To his surprise he found further speech stopped by two soft lips, not his own.

“I know all about that,” came a laughing voice through the soft lips. “And I love you all the more for it, you funny old thing! (Did you know I loved you, by the way? Well, I do. I discovered it this morning.) You see, I got a letter from Cynthia to-day.”

“God bl—— Did you really?”

“Yes, and she told me everything, not omitting her own advice to you yesterday. She said she thought after all that she’d better warn me, just in case you did take it. But she never said she was going to bring the whole lot of them along, just in case, too.”

“Cynthia,” said Mr. Priestley thoughtfully, “seems to have been double-crossing everybody.” It was an echo of the late Mr. Mullins, recently defunct.

“Then let’s double-cross her!” cried Laura, with sudden inspiration. “Let’s go straight back home, pack your bag (mine’s packed already) and go off for a honeymoon at once, instead of that wedding-breakfast and all their silly jokes.”

Mr. Priestley looked at his wife with speechless admiration. Then he recovered himself and leaned perilously out to address the driver.

“Mr. Priestley,” said Laura, when her husband had returned to safety and her side, “don’t you think it’s time you kissed your wife? It’s the right thing to do in the taxi after the wedding, I’ve always understood.” She looked at him laughingly, but there was a faint flush on either cheek which Mr. Priestley found quite incredibly adorable. “Say: ‘Mrs. Priestley, may I beg the favour, madam, of a caress, an it please you?’”

“‘Mrs. Priestley,’” replied her husband in tones of awe. “‘Mrs. Priestley!’”

Laura made a little movement towards him, and Mr. Priestley completely forgot the rest of his speech.

It didn’t seem to matter.

The End

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Table of Contents

- The Amateur Crime
- Contents
- Prologue
- Chapter I. The Nesbitt Combination
- Chapter II. From Cocktails to Criminology
- Chapter III. Mr. Priestley Is Adventurous
- Chapter IV. Red Blood and Red Ink
- Chapter V. Confusing the Issue

- Chapter VI. Adventures of a Pair of Handcuffs

- Chapter VII. Inspector Cottingham Smells Blood

- Chapter VIII. Two into One Will Go
- Chapter IX. George Says Nothing, Much
- Chapter X. Laura Surpasses Herself

- Chapter XI. Perspicacity of a Chief Constable

- Chapter XII. Mr. Priestley Becomes an Uncle

- Chapter XIII. Cynthia Begins to Smile

- Chapter XIV. Interesting Scene in a Tool-Shed

- Chapter XV. Various People Get Busy

- Chapter XVI. Mr. Priestley Bursts a Bombshell

- Chapter XVII. Awkward Predicament of Some Conspirators

- Chapter XVIII. Mr. Priestley Solves His Last Problem

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE