“Immured in the linen cupboard, I think, or concealed in the cistern. Anyhow, safely out of sight. I suppose you know she’s wanted by the police?” “Only Dora?” replied Cynthia pithily. “So far, yes. Another thing we wanted to know was whether Laura turned up here in the small hours?” “No,” said Guy. “Didn’t she get home, George?” “No. Mind this pipe, by the way, Cynthia?” “Not a bit; we’ve finished breakfast: You don’t seem very worried about Laura, George.” “I’m not,” replied that young woman’s brother. “If anybody’s capable of taking care of herself, Laura is. At the present moment she’s probably taking care of that chap Priestley as well if I know her.” A certain light in George’s eye indicated a fellow-feeling for Mr. Priestley. “But supposing they haven’t been able to get that handcuff off?” “Laura,” said George with conviction, “could wriggle out of anything.” He picked up the fallen _Sunday Courier_ and begun to scrutinise it. He had seen it already, but it is nice to look at one’s name in print for the first time. Guy and Doyle began to exchange congratulations over George’s shoulders, pointing to the passages which particularly pleased them. George, having examined the paragraph in which his name occurred to make sure that they had not let it out of this copy, surrendered the paper and grinned cheerfully at Cynthia. Cynthia saw the grin and it jarred upon her. Cynthia was not feeling at all like grinning that morning. “What do you think of it all, George?” she asked. “Me?” said George in some surprise; George was not used to having his opinion sought. “Oh, I think it’s rather a rag.” In spite of herself Cynthia laughed. “You hopeless _babies_!” she said, and went out of the room. Two minutes later she was back again. “It may interest you to know,” she remarked coldly from the doorway, “that half the population of Duffley seems to be in the road outside this house. Will one of you go and send them away, please?” She withdrew again. “The crowd collects,” murmured Guy with pleasure. “That’s quite in order. Highly professional conduct on the part of the crowd.” “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Doyle. “I’d forgotten to mention that. I was gloating over them at breakfast. It just wanted a crowd to top things off. George, go and send them away.” “Oh, come,” protested George. “I like that.” “I thought you would. You’re the sort of person who can get a lot of fun out of a crowd, George, providing, of course, that they’re sufficiently rough. I hope you won’t be disappointed. Run along. You heard what Cynthia said.” “But why can’t one of you two go?” “Because we’re the brains of the conspiracy, and the brains never undertakes manual work like crowd-hustling. Besides, you’re bigger than us. Out with you, George.” George went out.