“Got to go over to Manstead to fetch the car,” said George, not quite so dolefully. There had been a ring in Guy’s question, and George was not sorry to have a sound excuse against whatever the ring might portend. “It’s between thirty and forty miles from here. Take me most of the morning.”
“Oh, are you going to drive forty miles to-morrow morning?” asked Monica instantly. “Oh, George, how gorgeous! You’ll take me with you, won’t you?”
“Um!” gulped George. “Er—yes, oh, yes. Er—rather. If—if you’re sure you’d really like to come. It’ll be a beastly journey, you know,” he added hopefully.
“Thanks awfully,” said Monica, promptly extinguishing the hope. “I’d love it.”
George contemplated his feet with a moody air. He had, he now realised, been quite mistaken about that trip to Manstead; he hadn’t disliked the thought of it at all, he had actually been looking forward to it intensely. It had promised a whole morning’s peace, away from everything that was making life so bleak at present. Now life was apparently to be bleaker still. Probably Monica would fill the petrol-tank up with water and the radiator with petrol, or stick pins into the tyres, or scratch her initials on the paint; at the very least she would wilfully misdirect him on the road, in order to get a sixty-mile joy-ride instead of a thirty-five. He meditated dismally.
Doyle had drawn Guy aside. “What about that youth for the opening of the Inspector’s eyes?” he said in a low voice.
“Just what I’d thought of, my dear fellow. Couldn’t be better. Come over as soon as you like after breakfast.”
“Do these two know about keeping Dora dark, so to speak?”
“By Jove, no! I’d forgotten all about it. As we’re keeping them in the dark ourselves, what reason can we give?”
“Leave it to me,” adjured Mr. Doyle, thinking rapidly. He took Guy’s arm and drew him back to the little group by the door.