Make a gist of the following chapter:

How Bobby and Frankie got out of the post office without disgracing themselves neither of them ever knew. Outside, with one accord, they looked at each other and shook with laughter.
"At the Vicarage — all the time!" gasped Bobby.
"And I looked through four hundred and eighty Evanses!" lamented Frankie.
"Now I see why Bassington-ffrench was so amused when he realized we didn't know in the least who Evans was!"    
"And, of course, it was dangerous from their point of view. You and Evans were actually under the same roof."
"Come on," said Bobby. "Marchbolt's the next place."
"Like where the rainbow ends," said Frankie. "Back to the dear old home."
"Dash it all," said Bobby, "we must do something about Badger. Have you any money, Frankie?"
Frankie opened her bag and took out a handful of notes. "Give these to him and tell him to make some arrangement with his creditors, and say that Father will buy the garage and put him in as manager."
"All right," said Bobby. "The great thing is to get off quickly."
"Why this frightful haste?"
"I don't know — but I've a feeling something might happen."
"How awful! Let's go ever so quickly."
"I'll settle Badger. You go and start the car."
"I shall never buy that toothbrush," said Frankie.
Five minutes saw them speeding out of Chipping Somerton. Bobby had no occasion to complain of lack of speed.
Nevertheless, Frankie suddenly said, "Look here, Bobby, this isn't quick enough."
Bobby glanced at the speedometer needle, which was, at the moment, registering eighty, and remarked dryly, "I don't see what more we can do."
"We can take an air taxi," said Frankie. "We're only about seven miles from Medeshot Aerodrome."
"My dear girl!" said Bobby.
"If we do that we'll be home in a couple of hours."
"Good," said Bobby. "Let's take an air taxi."
The whole proceeding was beginning to take on the fantastic character of a dream. Why this wild hurry to get to Marchbolt? Bobby didn't know. He suspected that Frankie didn't know, either. It was just a feeling.
At Medeshot Frankie asked for Mr. Donald King, and an untidy-looking young man was produced who appeared languidly surprised at the sight of her.
"Hullo, Frankie," he said. "I haven't seen you for an age. What do you want?"
"I want an air taxi," said Frankie. "You do that sort of thing, don't you?"
"Oh, yes. Where do you want to go?"
"I want to get home quickly," said Frankie.
Mr. Donald King raised his eyebrows. "Is that all?" he asked.
"Not quite," said Frankie, "but it's the main idea."
"Oh, well, we can soon fix you up."
"I’ll give you a check," said Frankie.
Five minutes later they were off.
"Frankie," said Bobby, "why are we doing this?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," said Frankie. "But I feel we must. Don't you?"
"Curiously enough, I do. But I don't know why. After all, our Mrs. Roberts won't fly away on a broomstick."
"She might. Remember, we don't know what Bassington-ffrench is up to."
"That's true," said Bobby thoughtfully.
It was growing late when they reached their destination. The plane landed them in the park, and five minutes later Bobby and Frankie were driving into Marchbolt in Lord Marchington's Chrysler.
They pulled up outside the Vicarage gate, the Vicarage drive not lending itself to the turning of expensive cars. Then jumping out they ran up the drive.
I shall wake up soon, thought Bobby. What are we doing and why?
A slender figure was standing on the doorstep. Frankie and Bobby recognized her at the same minute.
"Moira!" cried Frankie.
Moira turned. She was swaying slightly. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you. I don't know what to do."
"But what on earth brings you here?"
"The same thing that has brought you, I expect."
"You have found out who Evans is?" asked Bobby.
Moira nodded. "Yes, it's a long story —"
"Come inside," said Bobby.
But Moira shrank back. "No, no," she said hurriedly. "Let's go somewhere and talk. There's something I must tell you — before we go into the house. Isn't there a cafe or some place like that in the town? Somewhere where we could go?"
"All right," said Bobby, moving unwillingly away from the door. "But why-"
Moira stamped her foot. "You'll see when I tell you. Oh, do come! There's not a minute to lose."
They yielded to her urgency. About halfway down the main street was the Orient Cafe, whose somewhat grand name was not borne out by the interior decoration. The three of them filed in. It was a slack moment — half past six.
They sat down at a small table in the corner, and Bobby ordered three coffees.
"Now then?" he said.
"Wait till she's brought the coffee," said Moira.
The waitress returned and listlessly deposited three cups of tepid coffee in front of them.
"Now then," said Bobby again.
"I hardly know where to begin," said Moira. "It was in the train going to London. Really the most amazing coincidence. I went along the corridor and —" She broke off. Her seat faced the door and she leaned forward staring.
"He must have followed me," she said.
"Who?" cried Frankie and Bobby together.
"Bassington-ffrench," whispered Moira.
"You've seen him?"
"He's outside. I saw him. With a woman with red hair."
"Mrs. Cayman," cried Frankie.
She and Bobby jumped and ran to the door. A protest came from Moira, but neither of them heeded it. They looked up and down the street but Bassington-ffrench was nowhere in sight.
Moira joined them. "Has he gone?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Oh! Do be careful. He's dangerous — horribly dangerous."
"He can't do anything so long as we're all together," said Bobby.
"Brace up, Moira," said Frankie. "Don't be such a rabbit."
"Well, we can't do anything for the moment," said Bobby, leading the way back to the table. "Go on with what you were telling us, Moira."
He picked up his cup of coffee. Frankie lost her balance and fell against him, and the coffee poured over the table.
"Sorry," said Frankie.
She stretched over to the adjoining table, which was laid for possible diners. There was a cruet on it with two glass-stoppered bottles containing oil and vinegar.
The oddity of Frankie's proceedings riveted Bobby's attention. She took the vinegar bottle, emptied out the vinegar into the slop-bowl and began to pour coffee into it from her cup.
"Have you gone batty, Frankie?" asked Bobby. "What the devil are you doing?"
"Taking a sample of this coffee for George Arbuthnot to analyze," said Frankie.
She turned to Moira.
"The game's up, Moira! The whole thing came to me in a flash as we stood at the door just now! When I jogged Bobby's elbow and made him spill his coffee I saw your face. You put something in our cups when you sent us running to the door to look for Bassington-ffrench. The game's up, Mrs. Nicholson or Templeton or whatever you like to call yourself!"
"Templeton?" cried Bobby.
"Look at her face," cried Frankie. "If she denies it, ask her to come to the Vicarage and see if Mrs. Roberts doesn't identify her."
Bobby did look at her. He saw that face — that haunting, wistful face — transformed by a demoniac rage. The beautiful mouth opened and a stream of foul and hideous curses poured out. She fumbled in her handbag.
Bobby was still dazed, but he acted in the nick of time. It was his hand that struck the pistol up.
The bullet passed over Frankie's head and buried itself in the wall of the Orient Cafe.
For the first time in its history one of the waitresses hurried. With a wild scream she shot out into the street, calling: "Help! Murder! POLICE!"
