“The man’s name is Priestley.” If Guy and Mr. Doyle started violently, apparently the Superintendent did not notice. “Priestley. He’s got a flat in Half Moon Street. Well-to-do bachelor, with quiet tastes. Last man in the world to do anything of this sort, we’ve satisfied ourselves on that point all right. The girl’s his cousin. As a matter of fact he employs her, out of charity, no doubt, as his secretary. Perfectly respectable, both of them.” This time Guy and Mr. Doyle did exchange glances. It was beyond the powers of human self-restraint not to do so. Each read in the other’s eye bewilderment charged with faint alarm. “What in the deuce is happening?” eye asked eye, and received no answer. “You haven’t found the Crown Prince’s body yet, I suppose?” the Colonel ventured, as the Superintendent gazed moodily out through the French windows towards the river. “We have, though,” the man from Scotland Yard replied grimly. “Just as we expected, on a boat passing Greenwich.” “Bound for Bosnogovina?” “Exactly. We thought they’d want to show it to the people, to prove he really was dead; and that’s just what happened.” “Ah!” Again Guy and Mr. Doyle exchanged glances. This time the glances said to each other: “Have _they_ gone mad, or have _we_?” There was a very intense silence. Suddenly the Superintendent wheeled round and fixed Guy with his disconcerting pale blue eyes. “You two gentlemen stay here, please.” He walked abruptly out into the garden, followed by the Colonel. “I don’t think,” observed Mr. Doyle with some care, “that I quite like that gentleman, Nesbitt. I don’t like any of him much, but least of all his eyes.” Guy smiled, a little unsecurely. “Was I totally mistaken, Doyle, or _did_ he murmur something to our friend about a dead Crown Prince’s body being recovered off Greenwich _en route_ for Bosnogosomethingorother? I think I must have been totally mistaken.” “If you were, then I was too. I don’t think we can both have been, you know.” “Then what,” said Guy, “in the name of all that’s unholy was he talking about?” “There you’ve chased me up a gum-tree,” admitted Mr. Doyle. They looked out of the window to where the Superintendent was intently examining the mass of footprints. “It’s pusillanimous, no doubt,” said Mr. Doyle, “but do you know the effect that man has on me? He makes me almost wish we hadn’t made those beautiful footprints. He doesn’t look to me the sort of person to take a harmless joke at all well.” After a few minutes the Superintendent rose and engaged the Colonel in talk. The next thing was that both walked briskly to the gate that led into George’s garden and passed out of sight. George was at home that afternoon. Cynthia had insisted upon Monica going out to pay a couple of calls with her; she had had to insist very hard, but she had carried her point. George, drawing the line quite properly at calls, was at home.