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.