“The detective stories always make the chap from Scotland Yard a perfect fool,” concluded Mr. Doyle bitterly, “and my God! I’m not surprised.”
“Shut up, Pat,” said Dora crossly. “He’ll find out all in good time the fool he’s making of himself. What’s worrying me is that apparently I’ve got to miss the show to-night. I shall be getting the sack soon if this goes on.”
“The sack, Dora?” said a pleasant voice from the door. “Well, my dear, what are you doing—good gracious!” Cynthia stared at the linked trio in amazement. “What is happening?”
“This is Superintendent Peters of Scotland Yard,” said her husband pleasantly. “He’s labouring under a slight delusion, we think.”
“He’s the biggest idiot Scotland Yard ever turned out,” Mr. Doyle put it less tactfully.
George grinned ruefully and did not put it at all. A cautious man, George.
“Is this Mrs. Nesbitt, Colonel?” asked the Superintendent.
The Colonel nodded.
“Cynthia Nesbitt,” the Superintendent said snappily, “I arrest you …” He continued the speech as before, and again nodded to the horn-rimmed Bateman.
That representative of the law drew yet another pair of handcuffs from his pocket, small ladies’ this time, and in deathly silence proceeded to yoke Cynthia and Dora together—Cynthia apparently too dumbfounded to resist, Dora submitting with outward disdain and inward turbulence.