“Might I ask, then, what you intend to do with us?” Guy inquired in silky tones.
“Certainly, Mr. Nesbitt,” replied the Superintendent briskly. “Take you with me.” He looked round the room with his penetrating blue eyes, and added in an official voice: “Guy Nesbitt, Patrick Doyle, George Howard, I arrest you on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of the Crown Prince of Bosnogovina in this room on the night of the 10th instant, either as principals or as accessories before and after the fact, and I warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you at your trial.”
“But good Heavens,” spluttered Mr. Doyle, “we’re not—not Bosnogovinians, or whatever the place is.”
“No? But you speak the language, don’t you? You must remember that we have our evidence. And the constable has already identified you, without your knowledge, as the persons who removed the Crown Prince’s body from this room.”
“But, my dear good man, we’ve explained that. Don’t you see what a colossal idiot you’re making of yourself?”
“That’s my affair,” retorted the Superintendent, unmoved. “By the way, don’t attempt any funny business, any of you. The Colonel and I are both armed.” He took a whistle from his pocket and blew it shrilly. Two large men at once entered the French windows from the garden and stood as if on guard just inside. Another, whom Dora recognised as the man who had brought her down, came in from the passage outside.
This latter was not an imposing figure, even for a policeman in plain clothes. He was short and rather round, he wore a neatly trimmed black beard cut in a point and a pair of enormous horn-rimmed spectacles.
The same thought seemed to have occurred to Guy, for he nudged Mr. Doyle, and remarked: “Cheer up, Pat, you’ll get a lot of copy out of this. Look at that fellow, for instance. Did you ever hear of any one like it outside a detective story? I never dreamed these chaps existed in real life.”
It was a pity that the attention of Guy and Mr. Doyle was thus engaged, because even the Superintendent’s lips twitched spasmodically as his underling entered the room. The next minute, however, his face was as stern as before as he threw this newcomer a brief nod and remarked: “Carry on, Bateman.”
Bateman carried on. From the pocket of his large overcoat he produced, with a slightly apologetic air, two pairs of handcuffs, one link of each he proceeded to lock round either of Guy’s wrists. Unfortunately Guy was so busy looking mockingly contemptuous that he quite failed to notice the unusual clumsiness with which the operation was being performed. In the same way neither did Mr. Doyle nor George when they in turn were tethered each to one of Guy’s wrists. None of the three offered any physical resistance, because they were not going to spoil a good case by losing their heads; but Mr. Doyle suddenly found his tongue, and with it several pithy things which he wished to say to this dunderheaded Superintendent. He said them.