“And what do you mean by a demonstration?” said Longworth. “You don’t propose we should sing carols outside the drawing-room window, do you?”
“My dear people,” Hugh murmured protestingly, “surely you know me well enough by now to realise that I can’t possibly have another idea for at least ten minutes. That is just the general scheme; doubtless the mere vulgar details will occur to us in time. Besides, it’s someone else’s turn now.” He looked round the table hopefully.
“We might dress up or something,” remarked Toby Sinclair, after a lengthy silence.
“What in the name of Heaven is the use of that?” said Darrell witheringly. “It’s not private theatricals, nor a beauty competition.”
“Cease wrangling, you two,” said Hugh suddenly, a few moments later. “I’ve got a perfect cerebral hurricane raging. An accident.... A car.... What is the connecting-link.... Why, drink. Write it down, Algy, or we might forget. Now, can you beat that?”
“We might have some chance,” said Darrell kindly, “if we had the slightest idea what you were talking about.”
“I should have thought it was perfectly obvious,” returned Hugh coldly. “You know, Peter, your worry is that you’re too quick on the uptake. Your brain is too sharp.”
“How do you spell connecting?” demanded Algy, looking up from his labours. “And, anyway, the damn pencil won’t write.”
“Pay attention, all of you,” said Hugh. “To-night, some time about ten of the clock, Algy’s motor will proceed along the Godalming-Guildford road. It will contain you three—also Ted and Jerry Seymour, if we can get ’em. On approaching the gate of The Elms, you will render the night hideous with your vocal efforts. Stray passers-by will think that you are all tight. Then will come the dramatic moment, when, with a heavy crash, you ram the gate.”
“How awfully jolly!” spluttered Algy. “I beg to move that your car be used for the event.”