Mr. Priestley desisted from his efforts. He felt the file with his fingers and then, confirming a horrid theory, held it up against the light from the window. “I’m afraid it is,” he said dolefully. “At least, with this file. You see, the steel of the handcuffs is evidently harder than the file. What is happening is that the cuffs are filing away the file.”
“Oh!” said Laura, and thought unprintable things.
“And she said it was her only one,” remarked Mr. Priestley morosely. “Damn that policeman!” he added with sudden vehemence.
They stared at one another.
“Well, anyhow,” said Laura, “I’m not going to step outside any longer. I’m going in. You can tell the landlady anything you like—that we did it for a bet, or that we only got married this morning and the clergyman put them on by mistake instead of the ring. I don’t care. I’m going in to that fire. Come on!”
Mr. Priestley, having no option except brute force, came.
The landlady was still bustling about in the kitchen as they entered her presence, walking delicately and with hands still affectionately clasped. Under their coat-sleeves the handcuffs nestled out of sight.
“Well, sir, have you mended your motor?” asked the little landlady cheerfully, adding in the same breath, “Your supper’s quite ready. If you want me, just call up the stairs. I know you’d like to be alone, wouldn’t you?” This was said with an arch smile, to which both her guests failed signally to respond.
“Thank you,” mumbled Mr. Priestley. “Thank you.”
A solicitous look replaced the arch expression on the kindly little woman’s face. “Why, good gracious me!” she exclaimed in horror. “You’re wet through, both of you!”