“Somebody ought to tell him,” Cynthia affirmed. “This thing’s gone quite far enough. You must tell him, George.” “But I don’t know where he is.” “Pat knows his address. Find it out. And, as for the police side of it, if those two precious idiots don’t have that cleared up within twenty-four hours, I’m going to take a hand in it myself. Three can play at that game as well as two, and better. And in any case, somebody’s got to step in and sweep up the mess.” Cynthia paused, rather charmingly flushed with the heat of her indignation, and stared ominously at George, causing that perfect gentleman to wriggle his toes in his Oxford brogues. “And if you repeat a single word of what I’ve been telling you to either of those two, George,” she added quite fiercely, “I’ll never speak to you again.” George quailed before this horrible threat; but old loyalties are stronger than new ones, even where such a nice person as Cynthia was concerned. He grabbed his courage in both hands. “Yes, that’s all right,” he said very quickly. “I’ll be mum. But look here, Cynthia, about old Priestley, you know. I—I’m afraid I couldn’t tell him the truth without Guy’s permission. It’s—well, this is Guy’s pigeon, you know. Can’t very well go behind his back.” He grew very red and floundery. “Not—er—not playing the game exactly, eh?” A woman is always astounded when she finds another man taking her own husband seriously. “But, George,” Cynthia said in genuine surprise, “that’s really rather a distorted view, isn’t it? You surely don’t mean that you’d condemn this Mr. Priestley to unbelievable misery rather than go behind a silly whim of Guy’s? You’re not one of these ridiculous criminologists, or whatever they call themselves; you ought to be able to take a sane view. The whole thing’s exceedingly cruel, and—and very horrible.” George squirmed, but stuck to his guns. “Couldn’t go behind old Guy’s back,” he mumbled. “Rotten trick.” “Then you’re as silly as he is!” Cynthia flared at him suddenly. “Very well, leave poor Mr. Priestley to his fate. And if he commits suicide, as he’s almost certain to do, console yourself with the reflection that you never went behind Guy’s back. Excellent, George!” Cynthia very seldom flared, very, very seldom; but she was only human, and she really was worried. Besides, she had had very little sleep and her nerves were inclined to jangle. It was George’s misfortune to provide a safety-valve for some of the steam they had been generating. An awkward silence ensued. Then the front door-bell rang. “Don’t you bother,” said George, humbly anxious to make some sort of amends for his disgusting loyalty to Cynthia’s husband. “I’ll go. I’ll say you’re out, shall I?”