Suddenly the Superintendent wheeled round and fixed Guy with his disconcerting pale blue eyes. “You two gentlemen stay here, please.” He walked abruptly out into the garden, followed by the Colonel.
“I don’t think,” observed Mr. Doyle with some care, “that I quite like that gentleman, Nesbitt. I don’t like any of him much, but least of all his eyes.”
Guy smiled, a little unsecurely. “Was I totally mistaken, Doyle, or did he murmur something to our friend about a dead Crown Prince’s body being recovered off Greenwich en route for Bosnogosomethingorother? I think I must have been totally mistaken.”
“If you were, then I was too. I don’t think we can both have been, you know.”
“Then what,” said Guy, “in the name of all that’s unholy was he talking about?”
“There you’ve chased me up a gum-tree,” admitted Mr. Doyle.
They looked out of the window to where the Superintendent was intently examining the mass of footprints.
“It’s pusillanimous, no doubt,” said Mr. Doyle, “but do you know the effect that man has on me? He makes me almost wish we hadn’t made those beautiful footprints. He doesn’t look to me the sort of person to take a harmless joke at all well.”
After a few minutes the Superintendent rose and engaged the Colonel in talk. The next thing was that both walked briskly to the gate that led into George’s garden and passed out of sight.
George was at home that afternoon. Cynthia had insisted upon Monica going out to pay a couple of calls with her; she had had to insist very hard, but she had carried her point. George, drawing the line quite properly at calls, was at home.