George ground his teeth.
"What do you mean—whoever you are? I'm George Finch, and that sleeping-porch belongs to me."
"Good old George! Hunstanton speaking. Let us out, George, old top, like the sportsman you are!"
"What are you doing in there?"
"A policeman locked us in. And a blighter of a butler, after promising to undo the door, told some thin story about not being able to find the key and legged it with all our available assets. So play the man, dear old George, and blessings will reward you. Also and moreover, by acting promptly you will save the life of my dear good friend and hostess here, who has been hiccoughing for some little time and is, I rather fancy, on the point of hysterics."
"What are you talking about?"
"Mrs. Waddington."
"Is Mrs. Waddington in there with you?"
"Is she not, laddie!"
George drew his breath sharply.