As for Alan, nobody seemed to want him much. Monica even went so far as to remark that if he came mooning round her any more, she’d lock him in the coal-cellar for a day or two and see how he liked it. To which Alan replied very fraternally indeed, with much recourse to the name of “George.” Monica, very pink but beautifully dignified, forbore to retort, chiefly because for once she had nothing to say, and walked off with her small nose very much in the air. Alan then abandoned the study of footprints for that of Guy’s Canadian canoe. Having fallen into the river seven times in an endeavour to learn how to propel this treacherous craft standing upright in the stern with a punt-pole, he felt a good deal better.
Duffley was not the only place where people were puzzled during these days. All that portion of the population whose breakfast-tables were enlivened by The Daily Courier, shared a common bewilderment. For The Courier was just as bewildered as its readers. In other papers only the briefest notices had appeared regarding the Duffley entertainment, in some it had not even been mentioned at all. Their reporters had gone down on Sunday, investigated, and one and all returned to report that in their opinion there was something fishy about the whole thing, and a non-committal attitude, amounting even to complete ignorance, would be the wiser policy. The Courier, having already committed itself, could only pursue, at any rate for a day or two, the line it had adopted, but a shrewd man was sent down, unknown to Mr. Doyle, to look into matters himself. His subsequent report, though quite admitting the possibility that things might be as they had seemed, caused the editor some very thoughtful moments; but though inscribing Mr. Doyle’s name on a mental black list, he continued perforce to publish that gentleman’s reports.
As soon as possible, however, these were shifted from the chief news-page to the secondary, progressing thence by easy stages to a corner among the advertisements; at the same time editorial notes were added in which a distinctly sceptical tone was to be discerned. Readers of The Courier who were conversant with their favourite’s habits knew that by the end of the week it would be as if there were no such place as Duffley at all. In the meantime the streams of information which continued to pour into The Courier’s offices regarding the broken noses of the British Isles were diverted into the waste-paper basket.
Mr. Doyle noted these developments and smiled; he had already obtained enough money, upon completely false pretences, to furnish two houses instead of one; and he was quite able to write other kinds of fiction.
Besides the editorial offices of The Courier there was another room in London in which uneasy thought had become the order of the day, and this was whatever room happened to be occupied by Miss Laura Howard. As a general rule this room was Mr. Priestley’s study.
Laura had noticed a subtle change in Mr. Priestley. It had seemed to date from Monday morning. He had not talked to her very much at lunch and had looked at her several times in a curious way. Finally she asked laughingly if he was suffering from indigestion. Mr. Priestley had repudiated the indigestion, but mumbled something about this wretched business being more serious than he had realised. Hiding a stab of conscience under a smile, Laura remarked that he’d cheer up all right when he saw all the gorgeous things she’d bought. Mr. Priestley’s only reply had been to look as if he would burst into tears at the sight of them.
After lunch, too, he had been queer. Setting her down almost peremptorily to the Juvenal again, he had announced that he had to go out for a short time. He did not return till past five o’clock; and though he was then no longer quite so mournful as at lunch, his seriousness had, if anything, increased. He also contrived (a considerable feat) to impart that seriousness to Laura herself.
“You know,” said Mr. Priestley, looking at her very intently over his second cup of tea, “I have no wish to frighten you unduly, but this matter is very much more alarming than we thought, Laura.”
“Oh?” said Laura, impressed in spite of herself by his weightiness. What on earth had happened now?
Mr. Priestley selected a piece of currant cake with some care. “I’m afraid there is a great deal of which you know nothing at all. For instance, we were quite wrong when we assumed the title ‘Crown Prince’ to be a species of nickname for the dead man. It was nothing of the sort. Nor, indeed, was he the man you imagined.”