It continued to rage.
It developed heat.
George’s heart sank till it could sink no further. He poured himself out another glass of port and recklessly consumed it side by side with his cigar, an action that would have caused Guy in his saner moments the utmost pain and distress; as it was he never even noticed it. George squirmed, he wriggled, he writhed. Seven times he said, “I say!” and seven times said no more.
“I say!” said George loudly for the eighth time. “I say, if you’re so jolly keen on knowing what the wretched chap would do, why on earth don’t you stage a murder and find out?”
George had a large voice. In spite of their preoccupation his words penetrated into the minds of the other two. They actually stopped arguing to look at him.
“Do what?” said Mr. Doyle.
“What do you mean?” asked Guy.
So far as he knew, George had not meant anything, except a desperate endeavour somehow to break the thick cord of this interminable argument, but desperation sharpens the wits and George saw in a flash what he must have been meaning. “Why,” he explained modestly, “carry out an experiment, of course. A psychological experiment,” he added with pride. “Not a real murder, of course. Just fix things so that a chap thinks he’s committed a murder, you see. Oughtn’t to be so difficult. You could hammer out half a dozen different ways of working it, Guy, with your gumption.”
They stared at him in respectful silence. George, who was by way of sharing their respect, stared back.
“By jove!” exclaimed Mr. Doyle softly. One gathered that the idea appealed to him. He looked at George with new eyes.