“The detective stories always make the chap from Scotland Yard a perfect fool,” concluded Mr. Doyle bitterly, “and my God! I’m not surprised.” “Shut up, Pat,” said Dora crossly. “He’ll find out all in good time the fool he’s making of himself. What’s worrying me is that apparently I’ve got to miss the show to-night. I shall be getting the sack soon if this goes on.” “The sack, Dora?” said a pleasant voice from the door. “Well, my dear, what are you doing—good _gracious_!” Cynthia stared at the linked trio in amazement. “What _is_ happening?” “This is Superintendent Peters of Scotland Yard,” said her husband pleasantly. “He’s labouring under a slight delusion, we think.” “He’s the biggest idiot Scotland Yard ever turned out,” Mr. Doyle put it less tactfully. George grinned ruefully and did not put it at all. A cautious man, George. “Is this Mrs. Nesbitt, Colonel?” asked the Superintendent. The Colonel nodded. “Cynthia Nesbitt,” the Superintendent said snappily, “I arrest you . . .” He continued the speech as before, and again nodded to the horn-rimmed Bateman. That representative of the law drew yet another pair of handcuffs from his pocket, small ladies’ this time, and in deathly silence proceeded to yoke Cynthia and Dora together—Cynthia apparently too dumbfounded to resist, Dora submitting with outward disdain and inward turbulence. “Is that really necessary, Superintendent?” Guy asked in a voice of ice. The Superintendent did not even trouble to reply. “My God,” Mr. Doyle boiled over on seeing his lady thus ignominiously treated, “I’ll get you turned out of the force, you miserable bungler, if there’s any power left in _The Courier_’s elbow at all.” “But Guy!” said Cynthia, breathing a little quickly. “This is simply farcical.” “That’s just what we’ve been pointing out to the idiot, my dear.” “Colonel!” appealed Cynthia. The Colonel shook his head. “Matter’s out of my hands, I’m afraid, Mrs. Nesbitt,” he replied gruffly. “I told you so, Guy!” Cynthia cried. “I told you it would end like this.” “Make a note of that admission, Bateman,” the Superintendent remarked with satisfaction. “Robinson, march ’em off. Bateman, you’ll take the women in the other car to Abingchester. Right!” The two watchers by the door approached. They were burly men, both, and they had the advantage of having their wrists free. “Now then, step lively,” said one. “Come along, you,” said the other. “Jump to it.” “But hang it all, Superintendent,” said Guy, “you must let us pack a bag first. Colonel, this is——” “Step lively, you,” said the first watcher, and pushed. “Jump to it,” urged the second, and pulled. The five passed out of the room; the Superintendent and the Colonel followed them. In the road was a large car. It was a very large car, and the seven just managed to get in. They drove off. Five hundred yards farther on they passed Monica and Alan, who had been sent into the village on a quite unnecessary errand.