The good don’t know enough.

‘Now,’ said Stalky, ‘get out! No, not out of the house. Go to your rooms.’

‘I’ll send your dinner, Bobby,’ said The Infant. ‘Ipps!’

Nothing had ever been known to astonish Ipps, the butler. He entered and withdrew with his charges. After all, he had suffered from Bobby since Bobby’s twelfth year.

‘They’ve done everything they could, short of murder,’ said The Infant. ‘You know what this’ll mean for the regiment. It isn’t as if we were dealing with Sahibs nowadays.’

‘Quite so.’ Stalky turned on me. ‘Go and release the bagman,’ he said.

‘‘Tisn’t my garage,’ I pleaded. ‘I’m company. Besides, he’ll probably slay me. He’s been in the sack for hours.’

‘Look here,’ Stalky thundered—the years had fallen from us both—‘is your—am I commandin’ or are you? We’ve got to pull this thing off somehow or other. Cut over to the garage, make much of him, and bring him over. He’s dining with us. Be quick, you dithering ass!’

I was quick enough; but as I ran through the shrubbery I wondered how one extricates the subaltern of the present day from a sack without hurting his feelings. Anciently, one slit the end open, taking off his boots first, and then fled.

Imagine a sumptuously-equipped garage, half-filled by The Infant’s cobalt-blue, grey-corded silk limousine and a mud-splashed, cheap, hooded four-seater. In the back seat of this last, conceive a fiery chestnut head emerging from a long oat-sack; an implacable white face, with blazing eyes and jaws that worked ceaselessly at the loop of the string that was drawn round its neck. The effect, under the electrics, was that of a demon caterpillar wrathfully spinning its own cocoon.

‘Good evening!’ I said genially. ‘Let me help you out of that.’ The head glared. ‘We’ve got ’em,’ I went on. ‘They came to quite the wrong shop for this sort of game—quite the wrong shop.’

‘Game!’ said the head. ‘We’ll see about that. Let me out.’

It was not a promising voice for one so young, and, as usual, I had no knife.

‘You’ve chewed the string so I can’t find the knot,’ I said as I worked with trembling fingers at the cater-pillar’s throat. Something untied itself, and Mr. Wontner wriggled out, collarless, tieless, his coat split half down his back, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his watch-chain snapped, his trousers rucked well above the knees.

‘Where,’ he said grimly, as he pulled them down, ‘are Master Trivett and Master Eames?’

‘Both arrested, of course,’ I replied. ‘Sir George’—I gave The Infant’s full title as a baronet—‘is a Justice of the Peace. He’d be very pleased if you dined with us. There’s a room ready for you.’ I picked up the sack.

‘D’you know,’ said Mr. Wontner through his teeth—but the car’s bonnet was between us, ‘that this looks to me like—I won’t say conspiracy yet, but uncommonly like a confederacy.’

When injured souls begin to distinguish and qualify, danger is over. So I grew bold.

‘‘Sorry you take it that way,’ I said. ‘You come here in trouble—’

‘My good fool,’ he interrupted, with a half-hysterical snort, ‘let me assure you that the trouble will recoil on the other men!’

‘As you please,’ I went on. ‘Anyhow, the chaps who got you into trouble are arrested, and the magistrate who arrested ’em asks you to dinner. Shall I tell him you’re walking back to Aldershot?’

He picked some fluff off his waistcoat.

‘I’m in no position to dictate terms yet,’ he said. ‘That will come later.