Let it not be thought that _The Courier_ had been too easily gulled. The night editor, who was a naturally sceptical man, had caused a telephone call to be put through to the Abingchester police station before Mr. Doyle had been talking to him for three minutes. Subsequent calls to the houses of Messrs. Reginald Foster and Guy Nesbitt at Duffley confirmed the incredible. Doubting not that it was on firm ground _The Courier_ acceded (more or less) to Mr. Doyle’s terms, and so made certain of being the only one in the field the next morning with this scoop of a lifetime; then it scrapped its old centre-page at enormous cost, got behind itself and pushed. The result was most gratifying to all concerned. “Oh, put the horrible thing _away_!” Cynthia cried suddenly, snatching the paper from Guy and throwing it violently on the floor. “I can’t bear to look at it any longer.” “Dear wife,” Guy murmured, “you’re taking this thing in the wrong spirit.” “I don’t want to take it in any spirit at all,” retorted his dear wife. “What I was thinking of ever to let you embark on it, I can’t imagine. I must have been out of my senses.” “You were certainly an accessory before the fact, dear. But for that matter, we were all out of our senses. And a very good thing too. The chief merit of senses is that one is able occasionally to get out of them. And then look how interesting life becomes.” “Well, I hope you’ll find life in prison interesting. I don’t think I shall. Because that’s where we shall certainly end up, when the real story comes out.” “I’ve never been to prison,” Guy meditated. “It’s an omission that ought to be remedied. Everybody should go to prison at least once. Yes, I think prison would be intensely interesting. Except for the clothes, of course. But even in oakum and broad arrows, or whatever it is, I’m sure you’ll look perfectly charming, darling.” “Guy,” said his wife with feeling, “there are times when I come very near to wishing I hadn’t married you.” “‘Don’t send my wife ter prisin,’” chanted Guy, in a very cracked voice, grinning madly. “‘Hit’s the fust crime in ’er life,’ ‘Six munfs!’ replied is wusship. ‘Ho, Gawd ’elp my herrin’ wife!’” “Anybody in?” called a voice outside the window, fortunately preventing the erring wife’s repartee. “Come in, Doyle,” Guy responded, jumping up. “Through the window.” Mr. Doyle’s face appeared at the open window and preceded its owner into the room. “I’ve got George outside,” he observed, dropping to his feet on the floor, “but whether he can follow me is open to question. It’s a nice problem. Let’s see. Head first, George, and land on the hands. Excellent! Well, we’ve come to see whether you people are going to church.” “Church!” said Cynthia. “Good-morning, Cynthia,” said Mr. Doyle politely. “Or do I call you Mrs. Nesbitt now it’s the morning after? Anyhow, I hope you slept well.” “Where’s Dora?” Cynthia asked, disregarding this facetiousness.