“And you persuaded the Colonel into the business, you vamp?”
“I don’t think he needed much persuading,” smiled the vamp. “He felt, you see, that he had a score or two to work off on his own account. He’s rather a dear, when you get to know him.”
Dora disregarded the endearing qualities of the Colonel. “But why all this?” she asked plaintively. “That’s what I don’t get. Why turn round and bite the hand that plotted with you, so to speak?”
“But no hand did plot with me, Dawks dear. I didn’t want to plot at all. I ought to have put my foot down much more firmly that evening and forbidden it altogether, instead of allowing myself to be overruled so weakly. My dear, I hardly got a wink of sleep for two nights, thinking what poor Mr. Priestley must be suffering.”
Poor Mr. Priestley, who had scarcely suffered at all, introduced a deprecating air into his steady beam, as if to apologise for this waste of sleeplessness.
“In fact,” continued Cynthia, “I thought the whole thing very heartless, and as soon as I could see a way of turning the plot against its own makers I naturally took it. I thought my Guy and your Pat needed a lesson.”
“But what’s going to happen to them? The Colonel isn’t really going to put them in prison, is he?”
“No,” said Cynthia, not without regret. “I tried to persuade him to (it would have been so good for all of them), but he said that was really going too far. So he’s going to take them up to the middle of Harpenfield Woods and—leave them there!”
“You heartless woman!”
“Oh, they’ll be all right,” said the heartless woman serenely. “It’s only twelve miles. Of course they won’t be able to get the handcuffs off, because the key’s here. But then, they never arranged for a key for poor Mr. Priestley at all. I expect them home in plenty of time for dinner.”