The Colonel looked at his frank, bewildered countenance and grinned again. Funny how he’d suspected Nesbitt first of all; any one could see now that he was as innocent as a babe. Scholarly sort of chap, he looked; not a bit the kind to plan an elaborate hoax of this kind. But just the sort of chap, on the other hand, to have an elaborate hoax played on him.
“Lead on to the cellar, there’s a good chap,” grinned the Colonel.
With a puzzled shrug, Guy led on; Colonel Ratcliffe and the Inspector followed; a palpitating Alan brought up the rear. Guy opened the cellar door and instantly, like a jack from its box, a round black figure shot out, exuding coal-dust at every pore and buzzing like an angry wasp.
“What the devil … unwarrantable outrage … have the law … police … gross abuse of …” buzzed the figure.
The Colonel dealt sharply and efficiently with the buzz. “Now then, Mr. Foster,” he barked, in the voice which had made a Guards battalion quiver in its buttons, “that’ll do. If you’ve anything to say, kindly say it to me.”
Mr. Foster was not a Guards battalion. He quivered, certainly, but for quite another reason. Arresting his coal-dusty progress half-way up the stairs he complied with the Colonel’s invitation at some length. “I’ve a good deal to say, sir,” spluttered Mr. Foster, and went on to prove the truth of his words.
He might have gone on proving them all night had not the Colonel cut him short once more. “That’s enough, Foster,” said the Colonel. “The game’s up. We know all about you. Come upstairs.”
Mr. Foster came, as gently as any sucking-pig. Into his mind had flashed a horrible realisation—they had discovered that girl in his tool-shed and were going to arrest him for sheltering a murderess! He was—what was the phrase? Yes, an accessory after the fact. And accessories after facts, Mr. Foster had an uncomfortable notion, were just as guilty in the eyes of the law as the principals. Disturbing thought—if they hanged that girl they would probably hang him too! Mr. Foster felt very sorry for the girl, but he felt still more sorry for Mr. Foster. By the time the little party reached the scullery, whither they led him out of consideration for the rest of Guy’s house, Mr. Foster was quite certain that he was going to be hanged. He simply hated the idea.
“Now then,” barked the Colonel, as the circle closed round Mr. Foster in the scullery. “Now then, what have you got to say for yourself?”
“N-nothing,” quavered the moribund Mr. Foster, and exuded a small shower of coal-dust from his clothes by way of emphasis.