Cynthia was examining the handkerchief by the light of a candle which Guy had lit. “R.F. in one corner,” she announced. “Who on earth is R. F., Guy?”
“Reginald Foster!” replied her husband promptly. “The biggest bore in creation.” He began to shake again with unholy glee. “Have you any blood left, Doyle?”
“Precious little, and I don’t mind telling you that I’m not parting with it. There may be a few scrapings in the cup, though. Why?”
“Just an idea. Here, George; something you can do. On the hall-table you’ll see a cup, bearing traces of blood. Wipe that handkerchief round inside it, and then go and drop it on the river’s brim—where we’ll hope that not even the Inspector from Scotland Yard will mistake it for a primrose. Hurry, won’t you?”
George hurried.
“I think you’re being perfectly horrible, Guy,” said his wife. “Why couldn’t you go on using red-ink, like civilised human beings?”
“Because red-ink when analysed does not respond to the tests for human blood, wife.”
“But good gracious, you’re not expecting matters to get as far as that, are you?”
“I was once a Boy Scout, Cynthia,” Mr. Doyle intervened, “and my motto was ‘Be Prepared.’ It still is. Another of my mottoes,” he added thoughtfully, “if I remember aright, was ‘Zing-a-zing, Bom Bom!’ But don’t ask me what that means, because I never could discover. It’s probably Jugo-Chzechovinian.”
“But what did you do with the blood?” Cynthia pursued.