Major White shrugged his shoulders with much silent wisdom. He believed, it appeared, in thumps in face of any evidence in favour of milder methods.
“Deuced sorry for that girl,” he said.
Cornish was lighting a cigarette. “What girl?” he asked quietly.
“Miss Roden, chap's sister. She knows her brother is a dark horse, but she wouldn't admit it, not if you were to kill her for it. Women”—the major paused in his great wisdom—“women are a rum lot.”
Which, assuredly, no one is prepared to deny.
Cornish glanced at his companion through the cigarette smoke, and said nothing.
“However,” continued the major, “I am at your service. Let us have the orders.”
“To-morrow,” answered Cornish, “is Monday, and therefore the Ferribys will be at home. You and I are to go to Cambridge Terrace about four o'clock to see my uncle. We will scare him out of the Malgamite business. Then we will go upstairs and settle matters with Joan. Wade and Marguerite will drop in about half-past four. Joan and Marguerite see a good deal of each other, you know. If we have any difficulty with my uncle, Wade will give him the coup de grâce, you understand. His word will have more weight than ours We shall then settle on a plan of campaign, and clear out of my aunt's drawing-room before the crowd comes.”
“And you will do the talking,” stipulated Major White.
“Oh yes; I will do the talking. And now I must be off. I have a lot of calls to pay, and it is getting late. You will find me here to-morrow afternoon at a quarter to four.”