“Ah!” said the Superintendent.
Guy came forward with an easy smile. “I’m afraid, Superintendent,” he said smoothly, “that we’ve got a confession to make. I can’t imagine what’s been happening elsewhere, but apparently we planned rather better than we knew. The most amazing coincidence——”
“Have you anything you wish to say?” cut in the Superintendent in properly incisive tones.
“I have,” said Guy, unperturbed. “The whole thing was a joke. This is the truth.” He went on to give a detailed account of it.
At first the faces of his fellow-conspirators showed a certain relief. Though none of them would have admitted it, except George, they were all getting tired of the jest; it had been pleasant while it lasted, but life would become more simple without it. As Guy proceeded, however, relief gave place to growing uneasiness. The Superintendent was perhaps not a tactful man, and the complete incredulity with which he listened to Guy’s words was only too visible on his countenance.
“And is that all you’ve got to say, Mr. Nesbitt?” he asked, when Guy, a little haltingly as he saw the very poor impression he was making, had brought his story to an end.
“That’s all, yes. I’m sorry.”
The Superintendent seemed sorry too—sorry that any one should really think it any use to waste his time with such a hotch-potch of nonsense. He rubbed his chin and looked at Guy more in pity than in anger. The others hung on his words.
“Then according to you, Mr. Nesbitt, you don’t know that the Crown Prince of Bosnogovina was murdered here on Saturday night? You thought it was just a bit of play-acting, did you? You mixed up the parties that did it with your own friends?”
“But he wasn’t murdered here! I’ve just explained.”