With knitted brows Guy walked into his library and threw himself into a chair to think things out. Either the scheme was being successful beyond all hopes, or else a nasty snag had made its appearance somewhere. He wondered which it was.
In the meantime the objects of his earnest thought were walking along the road, followed by Alan’s eager eyes, like Jezebel’s from an upper window. They walked slowly, for all three had plenty to think about, and in silence. Two hundred yards or more had been covered before the Colonel gave tongue.
“You know, Foster,” he remarked, with more of the easy chattiness of the victor to the vanquished than he had hitherto displayed, “you know, it was that note that really gave you away. What on earth made you write it on your own note-paper?”
Mr. Foster raised dull eyes from an inward contemplation of last breakfasts and clergyman’s ministrations. “What note?” he asked apathetically.
“That note you wrote Nesbitt, of course, to get him away from the house. By the way, who was the girl?”
“I don’t know,” mourned Mr. Foster.
“You don’t know?” repeated the Colonel incredulously.
“No, I’d never even asked her her name.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
“What was that you said about a note?” asked Mr. Foster after a little pause. “I never wrote a note to Nesbitt.”