They passed through the faithful crowd and reached the Cottage and Guy asked the Colonel in for a drink. The Colonel was most grateful. He not only had a drink, but made a thorough examination of what Mr. Doyle referred to persistently as “the scene of the outrage.” Mr. Doyle also showed him a plan he had been at some pains to draw up for the benefit of the readers of _The Courier_, in which the position of the body was marked with a cross. “Oh, yes,” said the Colonel blandly. “And how did you know exactly where the body was?” “Me?” said Mr. Doyle with innocent surprise. “Nesbitt showed me. And the constable—what’s his name? Graves—showed Nesbitt.” And so for a long hour or more did the Colonel lay his traps and his intended victims skirt happily round them. At the end of that time the former went away a baffled man, with nothing more definite than some scrapings of the blood from the carpet in his pocket. “But that’s quite enough to clinch it,” he told Inspector Cottingham, who went with him. “I’ll bet a hundred to one that it’s chicken’s blood, or something like that. And while it’s being analysed I shall have a few things for you to do. There are some points I want checked.” And drawing a pencil and notebook from his pocket, he proceeded to make brief notes as he walked along, of the main heads of the story Guy had told him. At the same time that gentleman was ushering Mr. Doyle into the drawing-room, where Cynthia and George, having made all the conversation available, had fallen into a somewhat moody silence. Cynthia greeted her husband unkindly. “Well, Guy,” she said. “I suppose he saw through you?” “Saw through me, my dear? What an extraordinary idea. Certainly not. He didn’t see through me, Doyle, did he?” “Not for a moment,” Mr. Doyle assured him with conviction. “You were as opaque as—as George.” “Wives are most mistrustful people,” Guy murmured, dropping into a chair and extending his long legs. “As a matter of fact, Cynthia, I handled the gallant Colonel with considerable skill.” “Did you?” said Cynthia, patently unconvinced. “He put the wind up me,” George contributed. “Those blue eyes of his, eh? Seemed to look right through you.” “You see, Nesbitt?” said Doyle. “The workings of a guilty conscience. Most instructive.” He contemplated George with interest. “Apparently not only a murderer, but his victim as well, feels uneasy afterwards.” “Yes, and talking of murders,” said Cynthia with energy, “I insist on you two getting hold of that poor Mr. Priestley and putting him out of his misery.” She went on to elaborate her demands at some length. “Oh, come, dear,” said Guy, shocked. “This is not the spirit of scientific investigation. This is (I’m sorry to have to say it, but the truth must be faced) paltry pusillanimity.” “‘Paltry pusillanimity,’” repeated Mr. Doyle with admiration. “Very nice. I must work that into my next article. It can come in about the police.”