“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.”