rubber bands round your arm, and then reconstruct the crime and make you jump, and it’s registered on a thermometer. I know that when they call out ‘Who killed Prince Michael?’ I shall register a hundred and twenty-two, or something perfectly frightful, and they’ll haul me off to gaol at once.”
The door opened and Tredwell announced:
“Mr. George Lomax. Mr. Eversleigh.”
“Enter Codders, followed by faithful dog,” murmured Bundle.
Bill made a bee-line for her, whilst George greeted Lord Caterham in the genial manner he assumed for public occasions.
“My dear Caterham,” said George, shaking him by the hand, “I got your message, and came over, of course.”
“Very good of you, my dear fellow, very good of you. Delighted to see you.” Lord Caterham’s conscience always drove him on to an excess of geniality when he was conscious of feeling none. “Not that it was my message, but that doesn’t matter at all.”
In the meantime, Bill was attacking Bundle in an undertone.
“I say. What’s it all about? What’s this I hear about Virginia bolting off in the middle of the night? She’s not been kidnapped, has she?”
“Oh, no,” said Bundle. “She left a note pinned to the pincushion in the orthodox fashion.”
“She’s not gone off with anyone, has she? Not with that Colonial Johnny? I never liked the fellow and, from all I hear, there seems to be an idea floating round that he himself is the super crook. But I don’t quite see how that can be.”
“Why not?”
“Well, this King Victor was a French fellow, and Cade’s English enough.”
“You don’t happen to have heard that King Victor was an accomplished linguist, and, moreover, was half Irish?”
“Oh, Lord! Then that’s why he’s made himself scarce, is it?”
“I don’t know about his making himself scarce. He disappeared the day before yesterday, as you know. But this morning we got a wire from him, saying he would be down here at 9 P.M. to-night, and suggesting that Codders should be asked over. All these other people have turned up as well—asked by Mr. Cade.”
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