The idea was distinctly a sound one, but it was too late to be of any practical value.  Directly he moved I stepped in, and catching him a smashing box on the ear with my right hand sent him sprawling full length on the carpet.  Joyce laughed gaily, while lounging across the room Tommy set his back against the door and beamed cheerfully on the three of us.

“Quite a little family party,” he observed.

Joyce was in my arms, and we were kissing each other in the most shameless and unabashed way.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, “I hope you haven’t hurt your hand.”

“It stung a bit,” I admitted, “but I’ve got another one—­and two feet.”  I put her gently aside.  “Get up, George,” I said.

He lay where he was, pretending to be unconscious.

“If you don’t get up at once, George,” I said softly, “I shall kick you—­hard.”

He scrambled to his feet, and then crouched back against the wall eyeing me like a trapped weasel.

I indulged myself in a good heart-filling look at him.

“So you’ve been sorry for me, George?” I said.  “All these three long weary years that I’ve been rotting in Dartmoor, you’ve been really and truly sorry for me?”

He licked his lips and nodded.

I laughed.  “Well, I’m sorry for you now, George,” I said—­“damned sorry.”

If anything, the putty-like pallor of his face became still more ghastly.

“Don’t do anything violent, Neil,” he whispered.  “You’ll only regret it.  I swear to you—­”

“I shouldn’t swear,” I said.  “You don’t want to die with a lie on your lips.”

The sweat broke out on his forehead, and he glanced desperately round the room, as though seeking for some possible method of escape.  The only comfort he got was a shake of the head from Tommy.

“You—­you don’t mean to murder me?” he gasped.

I gave a fiendish laugh.  “Don’t I!” I cried.  “What’s one murder more or less?  I know you’ve put the police on to me, and I’d sooner be hanged than go back to Dartmoor any day.”

Tommy rubbed his hands together ghoulishly.  “What are we going to do with him?” he asked.  “Cut his throat?”

“No,” I said.  “It would make a mess, and we don’t want to spoil Joyce’s carpet.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter about the carpet,” said Joyce unselfishly.

“I’ve got it,” said Tommy.  “Why not throw him in the river?  The tide’s up; I noticed it as we came along.”

Whether he intended the suggestion seriously or not I don’t know, but I rose to it like a trout to a fly.  There are seldom more than two feet of water at high tide at that particular part of the Embankment, and the thought of dropping George into its turbid embrace filled me with the utmost enthusiasm.

“By Jove, Tommy!” I exclaimed.  “That’s a brilliant idea.  The Thames water’s about the only thing he wouldn’t defile.”

I stepped forward, and before George knew what was happening I had swung him round and clutched him by the collar and breeches.