But the elderberry wine, in the intervals of combating influenza germs, had not performed its last miracle yet. With a swift movement Mr. Priestley turned about, darted back to the bed and kissed the astonished maiden in it unskilfully but heartily on her lips. Then he retired to his sofa. Ten minutes later two rhythmical breathings filled the room, one only just audible, the other distinctly so. The elderberry wine had done its last job. Chapter IX. George Says Nothing, Much Cynthia Nesbitt put the _Sunday Courier_ down on the table, shrugged her shoulders despairingly and turned to her husband. “Guy, darling,” she said, “you don’t mind my telling you that you’re utterly and completely mad, do you?” “Not in the least, dear,” Guy smiled. “I take it as a compliment. All really nice people are a little mad, you know.” “Yes, but there are limits even to the nicest people’s madness. Guy, what is going to happen?” “That,” said her husband, “is just what I’m so interested to know.” He picked up the paper and glanced over the staring headlines with affectionate proprietorship. “They’ve really done us quite proud, haven’t they! By the way, can I have another cup of coffee, please?” “I’m not surprised you need it,” said Cynthia, taking his cup. Guy continued to run gratified eyes over _The Courier_’s hysterics. _The Courier_ was in the habit of letting itself go when it felt that it had got hold of something really good; this time it had not so much let itself go as gone behind itself and pushed. Headlines half an inch high broke the news to an astonished world; the two columns were liberally interspersed with sentences, and sometimes whole paragraphs, in heavy leaded type; such words as “incredible,” “amazing,” “astounding,” and “epoch-making in the annals of crime,” appeared in prodigal profusion. Under Doyle’s own name one column was filled with his account of the affair; the other was devoted to his interviews with “The Constable in the Cupboard,” as _The Courier_ facetiously termed that functionary, and Reginald Foster, Esquire, “who actually intercepted one member of the nefarious gang and obtained from her facts of paramount importance.” The Crown Prince _motif_ was played up to its utmost capacity, and The Man with the Broken Nose was accorded the honour of leaded type whenever his pseudonym occurred, which was very often. In a screaming leader _The Courier_ laid it down that this lamentable affair was a Disgrace to Civilisation and attributed it directly to the pusillanimity of our present (so-called) Government, referred in scathing terms to the Constable in the Cupboard as an example of the ineptitude of our rural police force, and called upon its readers to avenge this slight to England’s honour by themselves prosecuting the search for the notorious Man with the Broken Nose. _The Courier_ then sat back on its haunches and sent for its circulation manager.