“No one is going to play any tricks on us, I hope?” said her father nervously. “I don’t trust that French fellow, Lemoine. The French police are up to all sorts of dodges. Put India-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 beeline for her, whilst George greeted Lord Caterham in the genial manner he assumed for public occasions.