Hilliard paused dramatically, like a conjurer who has just drawn a rabbit from a lady’s vanity bag.
“That would explain that Ferriby manager sleeping in the shed,” Merriman put in.
“So it would. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“And,” Merriman went on, “there’d be enough genuine props carried on each trip to justify the trade.”
“Of course. A very few faked ones would do all they wanted—say two or three per cent. My goodness, Merriman, it’s a clever scheme; they deserve to win. But they’re not going to.” Again he laughed delightedly.
Merriman was thinking deeply. He had recovered his composure, and had begun to weigh the idea critically.
“They mightn’t empty the brandy themselves at all,” he said slowly. “What’s to prevent them running the faked props to the firm who plants the brandy?”
“That’s true,” Hilliard returned. “That’s another idea. My eyes, what possibilities the notion has!”
They talked on for some moments, then Hilliard, whose first excitement was beginning to wane, went back to his room for some clothes. In a few minutes he returned full of another side of the idea.
“Let’s just work out,” he suggested, “how much you could put into a prop. Take a prop say nine inches in diameter and nine feet long. Now you can’t weaken it enough to risk its breaking if it accidentally falls. Suppose you bored a six-inch hole down its center. That would leave the sides one and half inches thick, which should be ample. What do you think?”