“Frightfully,” agreed Mr. Doyle gloomily.
“I’m afraid,” said Guy, “very much afraid, that we shall have to tell them the truth. It’s a pity, but there it is. Unless, of course, you’d like to carry the thing on to the end and sample the skilly, would you? I’ve always wondered what skilly was really like.”
“If you mean, go to prison,” Dora said with energy, “most certainly not, even to help your experiments, Guy. I’m sorry, but I’ve got a complex about prisons. I don’t like them.”
George looked relieved. He had a complex about prisons too. Perhaps it ran in the family.
“Come, Dora,” observed Mr. Doyle, jesting manfully, “you——”
“I say,” said George. “Look out. Here they come.”
The Superintendent and Colonel Ratcliffe were crossing the lawn. In one hand the former held a pair of boots.
“By Jove,” said Guy softly, “I wonder if this is why old Foster was arrested so mysteriously. I suppose we ought to have had Foster rather on our consciences, but as I’ve always said, to be arrested was just the very thing that Foster needed.”
Amid a respectful silence the Superintendent walked up to George. “Do you admit that these are your boots?” he asked curtly.
George looked at the boots. Undoubtedly they were his. On the other hand, was he to admit the fact? He glanced at the others, but their blank faces gave him no help. “Yes,” he said. “At least—well—yes, I—I think so.”