'
Bill looked thoughtful.
'It takes weeks to make a hole with anything else, you know,' he
said. 'When I was a kid a friend of mine bet me I wouldn't dig my
way through to China with a pocket knife. It was an awful frost. I
tried for a couple of days, and broke the knife and didn't get
anywhere near China.' He laid the remains on the grass and
surveyed them meditatively. 'This is what fellows always run up
against in the detective novels--What to Do With the Body. They
manage the murder part of it all right, and then stub their toes
on the body problem.'
'I wish you wouldn't talk as if we had done a murder.'
'I feel as if we had, don't you?'
'Exactly.'
'I read a story once where a fellow slugged somebody and melted
the corpse down in a bath tub with sulphuric--'
'Stop! You're making me sick!'
'Only a suggestion, don't you know,' said Bill apologetically.
'Well, suggest something else, then.'
'How about leaving him on Lady Wetherby's doorstep? See what I
mean--let them take him in with the morning milk? Or, if you would
rather ring the bell and go away, and--you don't think much of
it?'
'I simply haven't the nerve to do anything so risky.'
'Oh, I would do it. There would be no need for you to come.'
'I wouldn't dream of deserting you.
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