“Oh, George, you angel! I’d love it. I was simply longing to be asked, but thought you wouldn’t want me as well as the others.”
George’s red area extended to the back of his ears. “What rot. Why ever not? That’s settled then. Good.” He caught his sister’s quivering eye and looked hastily away. George hated being winked at when he was red.
Not unintrigued, Dora ran into the house. Between the first and last of the dozen odd steps she took she had considered Monica’s advisability as a wife for George, decided whole-heartedly in favour of her, got them engaged, helped them choose their furniture, married them, despatched them on their honeymoon, and gone to dinner with Pat with them a year later. Women have nimble minds.
Twenty minutes later the car and its complement departed.
Guy walked back to Dell Cottage with a distinctly flat feeling. True, Mr. Foster was still in its cellars, which was a pleasing thought; but a joke loses most of its savour when there is nobody to share it with. Goodness knew when Cynthia would be back, and it was obviously impossible to say anything to Alan.
As if in answer to his prayer for company, he saw the Inspector and Colonel Ratcliffe enter his front garden as he reached the house, and hurried round to meet them.
“Whatever’s happening now, Colonel?” he greeted that gentleman, with a nod to the Inspector. “Alan tells me you’ve got Mr. Foster of all people shut up in my cellar. Why?”
The Colonel grinned like a schoolboy. Now that he had penetrated the mystery he was as ready to enjoy its joke as any one; but he was determined that Mr. Foster was not going to get away with it unscathed. He was quite looking forward to the next half-hour.
“Why have I kept Mr. Foster locked up in your cellar, Nesbitt?” he said. “For the good of his soul. I’m now going to have an interview with the gentleman. If you’d care to be present, I think you might be interested.”
“Good Heavens!” Guy cried, with praiseworthy ingenuousness. “You don’t think he actually had anything to do with it, do you?”