“I have,” said Guy, unperturbed. “The whole thing was a joke. This is the truth.” He went on to give a detailed account of it. At first the faces of his fellow-conspirators showed a certain relief. Though none of them would have admitted it, except George, they were all getting tired of the jest; it had been pleasant while it lasted, but life would become more simple without it. As Guy proceeded, however, relief gave place to growing uneasiness. The Superintendent was perhaps not a tactful man, and the complete incredulity with which he listened to Guy’s words was only too visible on his countenance. “And is that all you’ve got to say, Mr. Nesbitt?” he asked, when Guy, a little haltingly as he saw the very poor impression he was making, had brought his story to an end. “That’s all, yes. I’m sorry.” The Superintendent seemed sorry too—sorry that any one should really think it any use to waste his time with such a hotch-potch of nonsense. He rubbed his chin and looked at Guy more in pity than in anger. The others hung on his words. “Then according to you, Mr. Nesbitt, you don’t know that the Crown Prince of Bosnogovina was murdered here on Saturday night? You thought it was just a bit of play-acting, did you? You mixed up the parties that did it with your own friends?” “But he _wasn’t_ murdered here! I’ve just explained.” “This is incredible, Superintendent,” exclaimed Mr. Doyle. “You surely aren’t seriously imagining that——” “That will do,” snapped the Superintendent, without any pretence of courtesy. “Any observations you wish to make can be put to the magistrates to-morrow morning.” “Magistrates!” gasped four unhappy mouths. “You don’t mean,” cried Dora, “that—that——” The Superintendent eyed her grimly. “May I remind you, Miss Howard, that you are already under arrest?” he observed. “You will undergo a formal identification by a Mr. Foster, whom we have been compelled to keep in detention for his own safety, as soon as we get to the police-station; and——” “Foster?” squeaked Mr. Doyle. “His own safety? What on earth are you talking about now?” The Superintendent was very patient. “No doubt it had never occurred to you that, apart from the constable, who only saw the Crown Prince’s dead body, and two other persons who had nothing to do with the murder, Mr. Foster is our only witness, did it?” Guy also was very patient. “My dear good man,” he said very patiently, “haven’t I already told you that _this_ is our Crown Prince, very much alive and no doubt longing to be kicking?” George smiled deprecatingly. He hadn’t the least idea what was happening, but he did realise that Guy’s tone was not calculated to soothe the Superintendent. “That’s right,” he mumbled. “Really quite true, you know. I’m not dead—not a bit of it.” The Superintendent looked unimpressed. “Might I ask, then, what you intend to do with us?” Guy inquired in silky tones.