With all possible haste Guy put them out of their misery. He went on to mention Mr. Doyle’s brilliant scheme.
“Oh, dear!” Cynthia collapsed weakly into a chair. “Guy, this is too silly. Poor Laura! Handcuffs! Oh, dear!”
But Miss Howard was made of sterner material. Disregarding her sister’s interesting predicament, she concentrated on the matter in hand. “Clues!” she announced, wrinkling her own pretty forehead in the same way as that which, in her sister’s case, had led directly to Mr. Priestley’s undoing. “Wait a minute—let me think! The body’s gone. Yes, but how did it go? It was dragged! Where to? Obviously the river, where there was a boat waiting in readiness to receive it. How’s that?”
The others looked at her with respect.
“But look here,” George interposed, “what’s it all about? I mean, what are you getting at? What’s the idea?”
The others looked at him, without respect.
“They want to set the scene for an ordinary conventional shilling-dreadful, George, in order to find out what would really happen in actual life instead of fiction,” Cynthia told him gently. “I’m not at all sure that I approve. Anyhow, never mind those children; come and sit here and tell me how you liked being shot. But do, for goodness’ sake, take off that dreadful beard!” she concluded with a little squeak, collapsing again.
George did as he was bid, and tugged manfully at his spirit-gummed beard. Having tugged the tears into his eyes, he gave up the effort in despair and continued to wear his face-embroidery.
The others were busily conferring.
“A sack of potatoes is what we want,” Doyle remarked. “We don’t want to have to drag George on the seat of his trousers, but unless you can suggest anything else——!” He looked inquiringly at Guy.