“If you’ve any experience of courts martial,” I said, “I haven’t—and if you really don’t mind trotting off—”
“Not a bit,” said Bland. “In fact a court martial would be rather a scoop for me. I’m sure the public would want to know how it’s run.”
“I shall feel greatly obliged to you,” I said. “The fact is that a nephew of mine is going to be hanged as a spy. You said you were going to hang him, didn’t you, Crossan?”
“I think it likely, my lord,” said Crossan.
“Of course,” I said, “he richly deserves it; and so far as my own personal feelings go I should be very glad if he were hanged. But, of course, he’s my nephew and people might think I’d been unkind to him if I made no effort to save him. One must consider public opinion more or less. So if you could arrange to rescue him—”
While I was speaking Clithering shambled into the room. He was wearing a suit of pyjamas not nearly big enough for him. The waiter who put him to bed was quite a small man. The pyjamas must have been his. He asked us to find his clothes for him, and said that he wanted to go to the post-office.
“I must send a telegram to the Prime Minister,” he said. “I must send it at once.”
Crossan eyed him very suspiciously.
“It strikes me,” said Bland, “that if you’re caught sending telegrams to the Prime Minister you’ll be hanged too.”