“We’ll give him five minutes,” Guy decided. “Come on, then.”
Doyle caught his arm, his face alight with new excitement. “I say, Nesbitt,” he spluttered, “don’t go in yet. I—I’ve had a tremendous brain-wave. Look here—don’t you see what the gods have sent us?”
“Beyond a bellowing bobby,” said Guy, “and an awkward pair of handcuffs, I don’t, no.”
“Why,” exclaimed Mr. Doyle, now almost incoherent with excitement, “why, don’t you see? A detective story in real life! The stock beginning of half the thrillers ever published! Mysterious stranger murdered, bobby surprises suspicious couple who may or may not be guilty, couple turn tables on bobby and make their escape, and when bobby is released—the corpse has disappeared! Man, it’s great! We must make use of it somehow!”
They stared at each other. George stared at both of them. He was not quite sure what was happening, but as long as they did not want him to put on another false beard or spoil another white shirt with red ink, he was perfectly game.
Over Guy’s features spread an unholy smile. “This wants looking into,” he agreed. “Let’s to the drawing-room.”
Disregarding the muffled frenzy from the library, they went.
Two agitated women rose at them as one girl, and danced before them.
“Guy, dear,” demanded that gentleman’s wife, “what has been happening? We heard the shot, and then. What is that curious whistling noise?”
“Pat, tell me the whole story,” Miss Howard danced with impatience, “or I’ll scream! I couldn’t have stood it a minute longer. I don’t care how strict your orders were, we were coming out the very next minute. Weren’t we, Cynthia?”