As if in answer to his prayer for company, he saw the Inspector and Colonel Ratcliffe enter his front garden as he reached the house, and hurried round to meet them. “Whatever’s happening now, Colonel?” he greeted that gentleman, with a nod to the Inspector. “Alan tells me you’ve got Mr. Foster of all people shut up in my cellar. Why?” The Colonel grinned like a schoolboy. Now that he had penetrated the mystery he was as ready to enjoy its joke as any one; but he was determined that Mr. Foster was not going to get away with it unscathed. He was quite looking forward to the next half-hour. “Why have I kept Mr. Foster locked up in your cellar, Nesbitt?” he said. “For the good of his soul. I’m now going to have an interview with the gentleman. If you’d care to be present, I think you might be interested.” “Good Heavens!” Guy cried, with praiseworthy ingenuousness. “You don’t think he actually had anything to do with it, do you?” The Colonel looked at his frank, bewildered countenance and grinned again. Funny how he’d suspected Nesbitt first of all; any one could see now that he was as innocent as a babe. Scholarly sort of chap, he looked; not a bit the kind to plan an elaborate hoax of this kind. But just the sort of chap, on the other hand, to have an elaborate hoax played on him. “Lead on to the cellar, there’s a good chap,” grinned the Colonel. With a puzzled shrug, Guy led on; Colonel Ratcliffe and the Inspector followed; a palpitating Alan brought up the rear. Guy opened the cellar door and instantly, like a jack from its box, a round black figure shot out, exuding coal-dust at every pore and buzzing like an angry wasp. “What the devil . . . unwarrantable outrage . . . have the law . . . police . . . gross abuse of . . .” buzzed the figure. The Colonel dealt sharply and efficiently with the buzz. “Now then, Mr. Foster,” he barked, in the voice which had made a Guards battalion quiver in its buttons, “that’ll do. If you’ve anything to say, kindly say it to me.” Mr. Foster was not a Guards battalion. He quivered, certainly, but for quite another reason. Arresting his coal-dusty progress half-way up the stairs he complied with the Colonel’s invitation at some length. “I’ve a good deal to say, sir,” spluttered Mr. Foster, and went on to prove the truth of his words. He might have gone on proving them all night had not the Colonel cut him short once more. “That’s enough, Foster,” said the Colonel. “The game’s up. We know all about you. Come upstairs.”