“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.