“He’s swallowed it,” Doyle whispered happily, as the two of them continued their nonchalant stroll towards the house. “I’m certain he has.” “Yes, I think we can write that off as another success,” agreed Guy, quivering with joy. “I knew that if he didn’t comment on my remarks about Alan, it would be because he took his story seriously.” “What a thing it is to be a psychologist!” said Mr. Doyle, with proper admiration. They passed indoors and refreshed themselves with the appetisers declined by the Colonel. As they passed in, Alan, timing things to a nicety, passed out. He pounded down the road in the wake of the Colonel, uttering subdued cries. “Hullo?” said the Colonel, stopping. “What’s the matter, Spence?” Alan pounded up, very red and breathless. “I’ve got him!” he announced. “He’s—oof!—locked in the celler—oof! I say, are you going to arrest him?” An unholy smile appeared on the Colonel’s face. “Is it a nice cellar, Spence?” he asked gently. “No, a bit damp, you know; so near the river. My sister says it was flooded last month.” “But not now?” said the Colonel, with regret. “Never mind; it’ll do. No, I’m not going to arrest him now. I’ll come back and see him later in the day. In the meantime—well, I think he might stay there, don’t you?” Alan grinned. “I won’t let him out. But he’ll make a hell of a noise, won’t he?” “I doubt it. But if he does, you can tell your brother-in-law that I’ve taken the liberty of borrowing his cellar for a few hours, and I should be obliged if he would consider it commandeered for that time in the name of the law. It’s quite illegal, but I fancy he won’t mind.” “Right-ho, I’ll tell him. I say, here’s the key.” The Colonel pouched it, and uttered words of commendation and high praise. Thoroughly pleased with each other, they parted. Alan delivered his message to Guy with considerable satisfaction. The burden of his remarks ran jubilantly along the lines of “I told you so.” Guy had already taken the precaution of telegraphing instructions to both his maids to prolong their holiday till further notice—orders which both those ladies received with profound regret; never can English servants have been so anxious to get on with the job for which they were being paid as Guy’s cook and parlourmaid that Monday morning. Lunch was therefore taken at George’s house, Mr. Doyle acting as host. George and Monica failed to put in an appearance; Dora was still mysteriously absent. It cannot be said that Mr. Doyle was unduly worried about his fiancée, but he did express a little mild wonderment as to what in the name of all that was holy she could be up to now. If he had known that what she was up to was the roof of a stout tool-shed, it is to be feared that his wonderment would have given place to indecorous mirth. For Dora had spent a dull morning.