Doyle caught his arm, his face alight with new excitement. “I say, Nesbitt,” he spluttered, “don’t go in yet. I—I’ve had a tremendous brain-wave. Look here—don’t you see what the gods have sent us?” “Beyond a bellowing bobby,” said Guy, “and an awkward pair of handcuffs, I don’t, no.” “Why,” exclaimed Mr. Doyle, now almost incoherent with excitement, “why, don’t you see? A detective story in real life! The stock beginning of half the thrillers ever published! Mysterious stranger murdered, bobby surprises suspicious couple who may or may not be guilty, couple turn tables on bobby and make their escape, and when bobby is released—_the corpse has disappeared_! Man, it’s great! We must make use of it somehow!” They stared at each other. George stared at both of them. He was not quite sure what was happening, but as long as they did not want him to put on another false beard or spoil another white shirt with red ink, he was perfectly game. Over Guy’s features spread an unholy smile. “This wants looking into,” he agreed. “Let’s to the drawing-room.” Disregarding the muffled frenzy from the library, they went. Two agitated women rose at them as one girl, and danced before them. “Guy, dear,” demanded that gentleman’s wife, “what _has_ been happening? We heard the shot, and then. What _is_ that curious whistling noise?” “Pat, tell me the whole story,” Miss Howard danced with impatience, “or I’ll _scream_! I couldn’t have stood it a minute longer. I don’t care how strict your orders were, we were coming out the very next minute. Weren’t we, Cynthia?” With all possible haste Guy put them out of their misery. He went on to mention Mr. Doyle’s brilliant scheme. “Oh, dear!” Cynthia collapsed weakly into a chair. “Guy, this is too silly. _Poor_ Laura! Handcuffs! Oh, _dear_!” But Miss Howard was made of sterner material. Disregarding her sister’s interesting predicament, she concentrated on the matter in hand. “Clues!” she announced, wrinkling her own pretty forehead in the same way as that which, in her sister’s case, had led directly to Mr. Priestley’s undoing. “Wait a minute—let me think! The body’s gone. Yes, but how did it go? It was dragged! Where to? Obviously the river, where there was a boat waiting in readiness to receive it. How’s that?” The others looked at her with respect. “But look here,” George interposed, “what’s it all about? I mean, what are you getting at? What’s the idea?” The others looked at him, without respect. “They want to set the scene for an ordinary conventional shilling-dreadful, George, in order to find out what would really happen in actual life instead of fiction,” Cynthia told him gently. “I’m not at all sure that I approve. Anyhow, never mind those children; come and sit here and tell me how you liked being shot. But do, for goodness’ sake, take off that dreadful beard!” she concluded with a little squeak, collapsing again.