“Hi, George!” cried Monica. “Where are you off to? I thought you were going to——” But George, grinning feebly, had been swept past. “Can’t you let old George alone for _five_ minutes?” asked Alan disgustedly, and went on to be very brotherly indeed. From a window of the house Detective Bateman watched the result of Alan’s brotherliness with an interested eye before hurrying back to the library. “They’ve gone,” he said. “And I think your brother and sister are coming back. I’m sure it’s your brother and sister,” he added with a smile. “Oh,” said Cynthia. “Well, we’d better get this absurd thing off then.” She extended a slender wrist, and Detective Bateman did something with a key. The wrist was freed. “I think,” Cynthia smiled, “that Dora really ought to keep hers on a lot longer. However, perhaps we mustn’t be too harsh with her.” “What on earth——?” cried Dora, finding her voice with an effort as the detective bent over her wrist in turn. “Yes, dear,” said Cynthia sweetly. “Quite. By the way, I don’t think you’ve ever met Mr. Priestley, have you? Take that dreadful beard off, Mr. Priestley, and be introduced properly.” For a couple of moments there was silence; then babel, produced largely by Dora, ensued. “Cynthia, you loathsome person,” observed Miss Howard, some two minutes later, “just be quiet a minute and let me get this straight. You say the Superintendent really isn’t a superintendent at all, but a friend of Mr. Priestley’s?” “Quite correct,” beamed that gentleman. “His name is Adams. We were at school together.” Dora digested this. “And the other two are friends too?” “All friends of mine,” agreed Mr. Priestley, without a single sign of compunction. “And you persuaded the Colonel into the business, you vamp?” “I don’t think he needed much persuading,” smiled the vamp. “He felt, you see, that he had a score or two to work off on his own account. He’s rather a dear, when you get to know him.” Dora disregarded the endearing qualities of the Colonel. “But _why_ all this?” she asked plaintively. “That’s what I don’t get. _Why_ turn round and bite the hand that plotted with you, so to speak?” “But no hand did plot with me, Dawks dear. I didn’t want to plot at all. I ought to have put my foot down much more firmly that evening and forbidden it altogether, instead of allowing myself to be overruled so weakly. My dear, I hardly got a wink of sleep for two nights, thinking what poor Mr. Priestley must be suffering.” Poor Mr. Priestley, who had scarcely suffered at all, introduced a deprecating air into his steady beam, as if to apologise for this waste of sleeplessness. “In fact,” continued Cynthia, “I thought the whole thing very heartless, and as soon as I could see a way of turning the plot against its own makers I naturally took it. I thought my Guy and your Pat needed a lesson.” “But what’s going to happen to them? The Colonel isn’t really going to put them in prison, is he?”