“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.