“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?”