MONEY FOR NOTHING

                          BY P. G. WODEHOUSE

                         GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK
                   DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.
                                 1928

                           COPYRIGHT, 1928,
                          BY P. G. WODEHOUSE
                          ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
                    PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT
                        THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS,
                          GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

                             FIRST EDITION




                           MONEY FOR NOTHING




                               CHAPTER I


                                   I

The picturesque village of Rudge-in-the-Vale dozed in the summer
sunshine. Along its narrow High Street the only signs of life visible
were a cat stropping its backbone against the Jubilee Watering Trough,
some flies doing deep-breathing exercises on the hot window sills, and
a little group of serious thinkers who, propped up against the wall of
the Carmody Arms, were waiting for that establishment to open. At no
time is there ever much doing in Rudge's main thoroughfare, but the
hour at which a stranger, entering it, is least likely to suffer the
illusion that he has strayed into Broadway, Piccadilly, or the Rue de
Rivoli is at two o'clock on a warm afternoon in July.

You will find Rudge-in-the-Vale, if you search carefully, in
that pleasant section of rural England where the gray stone of
Gloucestershire gives place to Worcestershire's old red brick. Quiet,
in fact, almost unconscious, it nestles beside the tiny river Skirme
and lets the world go by, somnolently content with its Norman church,
its eleven public-houses, its Pop.--to quote the Automobile Guide--of
3,541, and its only effort in the direction of modern progress, the
emporium of Chas. Bywater, Chemist.

Chas. Bywater is a live wire. He takes no afternoon siesta, but works
while others sleep. Rudge as a whole is inclined after luncheon to go
into the back room, put a handkerchief over its face and take things
easy for a bit. But not Chas. Bywater. At the moment at which this
story begins he was all bustle and activity, and had just finished
selling to Colonel Meredith Wyvern a bottle of Brophy's Paramount
Elixir (said to be good for gnat bites).

Having concluded his purchase, Colonel Wyvern would have preferred
to leave, but Mr. Bywater was a man who liked to sweeten trade with
pleasant conversation. Moreover, this was the first time the Colonel
had been inside his shop since that sensational affair up at the Hall
two weeks ago, and Chas. Bywater, who held the unofficial position of
chief gossip monger to the village, was aching to get to the bottom of
that.

With the bare outline of the story he was, of course, familiar. Rudge
Hall, seat of the Carmody family for so many generations, contained in
its fine old park a number of trees which had been planted somewhere
about the reign of Queen Elizabeth. This meant that every now and
then one of them would be found to have become a wobbly menace to the
passer-by, so that experts had to be sent for to reduce it with a
charge of dynamite to a harmless stump. Well, two weeks ago, it seems,
they had blown up one of the Hall's Elizabethan oaks and as near as a
toucher, Rudge learned, had blown up Colonel Wyvern and Mr. Carmody
with it. The two friends had come walking by just as the expert set
fire to the train and had had a very narrow escape.

Thus far the story was common property in the village, and had been
discussed nightly in the eleven tap-rooms of its eleven public-houses.
But Chas. Bywater, with his trained nose for news and that sixth sense
which had so often enabled him to ferret out the story behind the story
when things happen in the upper world of the nobility and gentry, could
not help feeling that there was more in it than this. He decided to
give his customer the opportunity of confiding in him.

"Warm day, Colonel," he observed.

"Ur," grunted Colonel Wyvern.

"Glass going up, I see."

"Ur."

"May be in for a spell of fine weather at last."

"Ur."

"Glad to see you looking so well, Colonel, after your little accident,"
said Chas. Bywater, coming out into the open.

It had been Colonel Wyvern's intention, for he was a man of testy
habit, to enquire of Mr. Bywater why the devil he couldn't wrap a
bottle of Brophy's Elixir in brown paper and put a bit of string round
it without taking the whole afternoon over the task: but at these words
he abandoned this project. Turning a bright mauve and allowing his
luxuriant eyebrows to meet across the top of his nose, he subjected the
other to a fearful glare.

"Little accident?" he said. "Little accident?"

"I was alluding----"

"Little accident!"

"I merely----"

"If by little accident," said Colonel Wyvern in a thick, throaty voice,
"you mean my miraculous escape from death when that fat thug up at the
Hall did his very best to murder me, I should be obliged if you would
choose your expressions more carefully. Little accident! Good God!"

Few things in this world are more painful than the realization that an
estrangement has occurred between two old friends who for years have
jogged amiably along together through life, sharing each other's joys
and sorrows and holding the same views on religion, politics, cigars,
wine, and the Decadence of the Younger Generation: and Mr. Bywater's
reaction, on hearing Colonel Wyvern describe Mr. Lester Carmody, of
Rudge Hall, until two short weeks ago his closest crony, as a fat thug,
should have been one of sober sadness. Such, however, was not the
case. Rather was he filled with an unholy exultation. All along he had
maintained that there was more in that Hall business than had become
officially known, and he stood there with his ears flapping, waiting
for details.

These followed immediately and in great profusion: and Mr. Bywater, as
he drank them in, began to realize that his companion had certain solid
grounds for feeling a little annoyed. For when, as Colonel Wyvern very
sensibly argued, you have been a man's friend for twenty years and are
walking with him in his park and hear warning shouts and look up and
realize that a charge of dynamite is shortly about to go off in your
immediate neighbourhood, you expect a man who is a man to be a man. You
do not expect him to grab you round the waist and thrust you swiftly
in between himself and the point of danger, so that, when the explosion
takes place, you get the full force of it and he escapes without so
much as a singed eyebrow.

"Quite," said Mr. Bywater, hitching up his ears another inch.

Colonel Wyvern continued. Whether, if in a condition to give the matter
careful thought, he would have selected Chas. Bywater as a confidant,
one cannot say. But he was not in such a condition. The stoppered
bottle does not care whose is the hand that removes its cork--all
it wants is the chance to fizz: and Colonel Wyvern resembled such a
bottle. Owing to the absence from home of his daughter, Patricia, he
had had no one handy to act as audience for his grievances, and for two
weeks he had been suffering torments. He told Chas. Bywater all.

It was a very vivid picture that he conjured up. Mr. Bywater could see
the whole thing as clearly as if he had been present in person--from
the blasting gang's first horrified realization that human beings
had wandered into the danger zone to the almost tenser moment when,
running up to sort out the tangled heap on the ground, they had
observed Colonel Wyvern rise from his seat on Mr. Carmody's face and
had heard him start to tell that gentleman precisely what he thought
of him. Privately, Mr. Bywater considered that Mr. Carmody had acted
with extraordinary presence of mind, and had given the lie to the
theory, held by certain critics, that the landed gentry of England are
deficient in intelligence. But his sympathies were, of course, with
the injured man. He felt that Colonel Wyvern had been hardly treated,
and was quite right to be indignant about it. As to whether the other
was justified in alluding to his former friend as a jelly-bellied
hell-hound, that was a matter for his own conscience to decide.

"I'm suing him," concluded Colonel Wyvern, regarding an advertisement
of Pringle's Pink Pills with a smouldering eye.

"Quite."

"The only thing in the world that super-fatted old Blackhander cares
for is money, and I'll have his last penny out of him, if I have to
take the case to the House of Lords."

"Quite," said Mr. Bywater.

"I might have been killed. It was a miracle I wasn't. Five thousand
pounds is the lowest figure any conscientious jury could put the
damages at. And, if there were any justice in England, they'd ship the
scoundrel off to pick oakum in a prison cell."

Mr. Bywater made noncommittal noises. Both parties to this unfortunate
affair were steady customers of his, and he did not wish to alienate
either by taking sides. He hoped the Colonel was not going to ask him
for his opinion of the rights of the case.

Colonel Wyvern did not. Having relieved himself with some six minutes
of continuous speech, he seemed to have become aware that he had
bestowed his confidences a little injudiciously. He coughed and changed
the subject.

"Where's that stuff?" he said. "Good God! Isn't it ready yet? Why does
it take you fellows three hours to tie a knot in a piece of string?"

"Quite ready, Colonel," said Chas. Bywater hastily. "Here it is. I have
put a little loop for the finger, to facilitate carrying."

"Is this stuff really any good?"

"Said to be excellent, Colonel. Thank you, Colonel. Much obliged,
Colonel. Good day, Colonel."

Still fermenting at the recollection of his wrongs, Colonel Wyvern
strode to the door: and, pushing it open with extreme violence, left
the shop.

The next moment the peace of the drowsy summer afternoon was shattered
by a hideous uproar. Much of this consisted of a high, passionate
barking, the remainder being contributed by the voice of a retired
military man, raised in anger. Chas. Bywater blenched, and, reaching
out a hand toward an upper shelf, brought down, in the order named,
a bundle of lint, a bottle of arnica, and one of the half-crown (or
large) size pots of Sooth-o, the recognized specific for cuts, burns,
scratches, nettle stings, and dog bites. He believed in Preparedness.


                                  II

While Colonel Wyvern had been pouring his troubles into the twitching
ear of Chas. Bywater, there had entered the High Street a young man in
golf clothes and Old Rugbian tie. This was John Carroll, nephew of Mr.
Carmody, of the Hall. He had walked down to the village, accompanied
by his dog Emily, to buy tobacco, and his objective, therefore, was
the same many-sided establishment which was supplying the Colonel with
Brophy's Elixir.

For do not be deceived by that "Chemist" after Mr. Bywater's name. It
is mere modesty. Some whim leads this great man to describe himself as
a chemist, but in reality he goes much deeper than that. Chas. is the
Marshall Field of Rudge, and deals in everything, from crystal sets to
mousetraps. There are several places in the village where you can get
stuff they call tobacco, but it cannot be considered in the light of
pipe-joy for the discriminating smoker. To obtain something that will
leave a little skin on the roof of the mouth you must go to Mr. Bywater.

John came up the High Street with slow, meditative strides, a large
and muscular young man whose pleasant features betrayed at the
moment an inward gloom. What with being hopelessly in love and one
thing and another, his soul was in rather a bruised condition these
days, and he found himself deriving from the afternoon placidity of
Rudge-in-the-Vale a certain balm and consolation. He had sunk into a
dreamy trance when he was abruptly aroused by the horrible noise which
had so shaken Chas. Bywater.

The causes which had brought about this disturbance were simple and
are easily explained. It was the custom of the dog Emily, on the
occasions when John brought her to Rudge to help him buy tobacco,
to yield to an uncontrollable eagerness and gallop on ahead to Mr.
Bywater's shop--where, with her nose wedged against the door, she would
stand, sniffing emotionally, till somebody came and opened it. She
had a morbid passion for cough drops, and experience had taught her
that by sitting and ogling Mr. Bywater with her liquid amber eyes she
could generally secure two or three. To-day, hurrying on as usual, she
had just reached the door and begun to sniff when it suddenly opened
and hit her sharply on the nose. And, as she shot back with a yelp of
agony, out came Colonel Wyvern carrying his bottle of Brophy.

There is an etiquette in these matters on which all right-minded dogs
insist. When people trod on Emily, she expected them immediately to
fuss over her, and the same procedure seemed to her to be in order when
they hit her on the nose with doors. Waiting expectantly, therefore,
for Colonel Wyvern to do the square thing, she was stunned to find that
he apparently had no intention of even apologizing. He was brushing
past without a word, and all the woman in Emily rose in revolt against
such boorishness.

"Just a minute!" she said dangerously. "Just one minute, if you please.
Not so fast, my good man. A word with you, if I may trespass upon your
valuable time."

The Colonel, chafing beneath the weight of his wrongs, perceived that
they had been added to by a beast of a hairy dog that stood and yapped
at him.

"Get out!" he bellowed.

Emily became hysterical.

"Indeed?" she said shrilly. "And who do you think you are, you poor
clumsy Robot? You come hitting ladies on the nose as if you were the
King of England, and as if that wasn't enough...."

"Go away, sir."

"Who the devil are you calling Sir?" Emily had the Twentieth Century
girl's freedom of speech and breadth of vocabulary. "It's people like
you that cause all this modern unrest and industrial strife. I know
your sort well. Robbers and oppressors. And let me tell you another
thing...."

At this point the Colonel very injudiciously aimed a kick at Emily.

It was not much of a kick, and it came nowhere near her, but it
sufficed. Realizing the futility of words, Emily decided on action. And
it was just as she had got a preliminary grip on the Colonel's left
trouser leg that John arrived at the Front.

"Emily!!!" roared John, shocked to the core of his being.

He had excellent lungs, and he used them to the last ounce of their
power. A young man who sees the father of the girl he loves being
swallowed alive by a Welsh terrier does not spare his voice. The
word came out of him like the note of the Last Trump, and Colonel
Wyvern, leaping spasmodically, dropped his bottle of Brophy. It fell
on the pavement and exploded, and Emily, who could do her bit in a
rough-and-tumble but barred bombs, tucked her tail between her legs
and vanished. A faint, sleepy cheering from outside the Carmody Arms
announced that she had passed that home from home and was going well.

John continued to be agitated. You would not have supposed, to look
at Colonel Wyvern, that he could have had an attractive daughter, but
such was the case, and John's manner was as concerned and ingratiating
as that of most young men in the presence of the fathers of attractive
daughters.

"I'm so sorry, Colonel. I do hope you're not hurt, Colonel."

The injured man, maintaining an icy silence, raked him with an eye
before which sergeant-majors had once drooped like withered roses, and
walked into the shop. The anxious face of Chas. Bywater loomed up over
the counter. John hovered in the background. "I want another bottle of
that stuff," said the Colonel shortly.

"I'm awfully sorry," said John.

"I dropped the other outside. I was attacked by a savage dog."

"I'm frightfully sorry."

"People ought not to have these pests running loose and not under
proper control."

"I'm fearfully sorry."

"A menace to the community and a nuisance to everybody," said Colonel
Wyvern.

"Quite," said Mr. Bywater.

Conversation languished. Chas. Bywater, realizing that this was no
moment for lingering lovingly over brown paper and toying dreamily with
string, lowered the record for wrapping a bottle of Brophy's Paramount
Elixir by such a margin that he set up a mark for other chemists to
shoot at for all time. Colonel Wyvern snatched it and stalked out,
and John, who had opened the door for him and had not been thanked,
tottered back to the counter and in a low voice expressed a wish for
two ounces of the Special Mixture.

"Quite," said Mr. Bywater. "In one moment, Mr. John."

With the passing of Colonel Wyvern a cloud seemed to have rolled
away from the chemist's world. He was his old, charmingly chatty self
again. He gave John his tobacco, and, detaining him by the simple means
of not handing over his change, surrendered himself to the joys of
conversation.

"The Colonel appears a little upset, sir."

"Have you got my change?" said John.

"It seems to me he hasn't been the same man since that unfortunate
episode up at the Hall. Not at all the same sunny gentleman."

"Have you got my change?"

"A very unfortunate episode, that," sighed Mr. Bywater.

"My change?"

"I could see, the moment he walked in here, that he was not himself.
Shaken. Something in the way he looked at one. I said to myself 'The
Colonel's shaken!'"

John, who had had such recent experience of the way Colonel Wyvern
looked at one, agreed. He then asked if he might have his change.

"No doubt he misses Miss Wyvern," said Chas. Bywater, ignoring the
request with an indulgent smile. "When a man's had a shock like the
Colonel's had--when he's shaken, if you understand what I mean--he
likes to have his loved ones around him. Stands to reason," said Mr.
Bywater.

John had been anxious to leave, but he was so constituted that he could
not tear himself away from anyone who had touched on the subject of
Patricia Wyvern. He edged a little nearer the counter.

"Well, she'll be home again soon," said Chas. Bywater. "To-morrow, I
understand."

A powerful current of electricity seemed to pass itself through John's
body. Pat Wyvern had been away so long that he had fallen into a sort
of dull apathy in which he wondered sometimes if he would ever see her
again.

"What!"

"Yes, sir. She returned from France yesterday. She had a good crossing.
She is at the Lincoln Hotel, Curzon Street, London. She thinks of
taking the three-o'clock train to-morrow. She is in excellent health."

It did not occur to John to question the accuracy of the other's
information, nor to be surprised at its minuteness of detail. Mr.
Bywater, he was aware, had a daughter in the post office.

"To-morrow!" he gasped.

"Yes, sir. To-morrow."

"Give me my change," said John.

He yearned to be off. He wanted air and space in which he could ponder
over this wonderful news.

"No doubt," said Mr. Bywater, "she...."

"Give me my change," said John.

Chas. Bywater, happening to catch his eye, did so.


                                  III

To reach Rudge Hall from the door of Chas. Bywater's shop, you go up
the High Street, turn sharp to the left down River Lane, cross the
stone bridge that spans the slow-flowing Skirme as it potters past on
its way to join the Severn, carry on along the road till you come to
the gates of Colonel Wyvern's nice little house, and then climb a stile
and take to the fields. And presently you are in the park and can see
through the trees the tall chimneys and red walls of the ancient home
of the Carmodys.

The scene, when they are not touching off dynamite there under the
noses of retired military officers, is one of quiet peace. For John
it had always held a peculiar magic. In the fourteen years which had
passed since the Wyverns had first come to settle in Rudge Pat had
contrived, so far as he was concerned, to impress her personality
ineffaceably on the landscape. Almost every inch of it was in some
way associated with her. Stumps on which she had sat and swung her
brown-stockinged legs; trees beneath which she had taken shelter with
him from summer storms; gates on which she had climbed, fields across
which she had raced, and thorny bushes into which she had urged him to
penetrate in search of birds' eggs--they met his eye on every side.
The very air seemed to be alive with her laughter. And not even the
recollection that that laughter had generally been directed at himself
was able to diminish for John the glamour of this mile of Fairyland.

Half-way across the park, Emily rejoined him with a defensive,
Where-on-earth-did-you-disappear-to manner, and they moved on in
company till they rounded the corner of the house and came to the
stable yard. John had a couple of rooms over the stables, and thither
he made his way, leaving Emily to fuss round Bolt, the chauffeur, who
was washing the Dex-Mayo.

Arrived in his sitting room, he sank into a deck chair and filled his
pipe with Mr. Bywater's Special Mixture. Then, putting his feet up on
the table, he stared hard and earnestly at the photograph of Pat which
stood on the mantelpiece.

It was a pretty face that he was looking at--one whose charm not even
a fashionable modern photographer, of the type that prefers to depict
his sitters in a gray fog with most of their features hidden from
view, could altogether obscure. In the eyes, a little slanting, there
was a Puck-like look, and the curving lips hinted demurely at amusing
secrets. The nose had that appealing, yet provocative, air which slight
tip-tiltedness gives. It seemed to challenge, and at the same time to
withdraw.

This was the latest of the Pat photographs, and she had given it to him
three months ago, just before she left to go and stay with friends at
Le Touquet. And now she was coming home....

John Carroll was one of those solid persons who do not waver in their
loyalties. He had always been in love with Pat, and he always would
be, though he would have had to admit that she gave him very little
encouragement. There had been a period when, he being fifteen and she
ten, Pat had lavished on him all the worship of a small girl for a big
boy who can wiggle his ears and is not afraid of cows. But since then
her attitude had changed. Her manner toward him nowadays alternated
between that of a nurse toward a child who is not quite right in the
head and that of the owner of a clumsy but rather likable dog.

Nevertheless, he loved her. And she was coming home....

John sat up suddenly. He was a slow thinker, and only now did it occur
to him just what the position of affairs would be when she did come
home. With this infernal feud going on between his uncle Lester and
the old Colonel she would probably look on him as in the enemy's camp
and refuse to see or speak to him.

The thought chilled him to the marrow. Something, he felt, must be
done, and swiftly. And, with a flash of inspiration of a kind that
rarely came to him, he saw what that something was. He must go up
to London this afternoon, tell her the facts, and throw himself on
her clemency. If he could convince her that he was whole-heartedly
pro-Colonel and regarded his uncle Lester as the logical successor
to Doctor Crippen and the Brides-in-the-Bath murderer, things might
straighten themselves.

Once the brain gets working, there is no knowing where it will stop.
The very next instant there had come to John Carroll a thought so new
and breathtaking that he uttered an audible gasp.

Why shouldn't he ask Pat to marry him?


                                  IV

John sat tingling from head to foot. The scales seemed to have fallen
from his eyes, and he saw clearly where he might quite conceivably have
been making a grave blunder all these years. Deeply as he had always
loved Pat, he had never--now he came to think of it--told her so. And
in this sort of situation the spoken word is quite apt to make all the
difference.

Perhaps that was why she laughed at him so frequently--because she was
entertained by the spectacle of a man, obviously in love with her,
refraining year after year from making any verbal comment on the state
of his emotions.

Resolution poured over John in a strengthening flood. He looked at
his watch. It was nearly three. If he got the two-seater and started
at once, he could be in London by seven, in nice time to take her to
dinner somewhere. He hurried down the stairs and out into the stable
yard.

"Shove that car out of the way, Bolt," said John, eluding Emily, who,
wet to the last hair, was endeavouring to climb up him. "I want to get
the two-seater."

"Two-seater, sir?"

"Yes. I'm going to London."

"It's not there, Mr. John," said the chauffeur, with the gloomy
satisfaction which he usually reserved for telling his employer that
the battery had run down.

"Not there? What do you mean?"

"Mr. Hugo took it, sir, an hour ago. He told me he was going over to
see Mr. Carmody at Healthward Ho. Said he had important business and
knew you wouldn't object."

The stable yard reeled before John. Not for the first time in his life,
he cursed his light-hearted cousin. "Knew you wouldn't object!" It was
just the fat-headed sort of thing Hugo would have said.




                              CHAPTER II


                                   I

There is something about those repellent words, Healthward Ho, that has
a familiar ring. You feel that you have heard them before. And then you
remember. They have figured in letters to the daily papers from time to
time.

                       THE STRAIN OF MODERN LIFE

    TO THE EDITOR

    _The Times._

    SIR:

    In connection with the recent correspondence in your columns on the
    Strain of Modern Life, I wonder if any of your readers are aware
    that there exists in the county of Worcestershire an establishment
    expressly designed to correct this strain. At Healthward Ho
    (formerly Graveney Court), under the auspices of the well-known
    American physician and physical culture expert, Doctor Alexander
    Twist, it is possible for those who have allowed the demands of
    modern life to tax their physique too greatly to recuperate in
    ideal surroundings and by means of early hours, wholesome exercise,
    and Spartan fare to build up once more their debilitated tissues.

    It is the boast of Doctor Twist that he makes New Men for Old.

                                                             I am, sir,
                                                             Yrs. etc.,
                                             MENS SANA IN CORPORE SANO.


                          DO WE EAT TOO MUCH?

    TO THE EDITOR

    _Daily Mail._

    SIR:

    The correspondence in your columns on the above subject calls to
    mind a remark made to me not long ago by Doctor Alexander Twist,
    the well-known American physician and physical culture expert.
    "Over-eating," said Doctor Twist emphatically, "is the curse of the
    Age."

    At Healthward Ho (formerly Graveney Court), his physical culture
    establishment in Worcestershire, wholesale exercise and Spartan
    fare are the order of the day, and Doctor Twist has, I understand,
    worked miracles with the most apparently hopeless cases.

    It is the boast of Doctor Twist that he makes New Men for Old.

                                                             I am, sir,
                                                             Yrs. etc.,
                                              MODERATION IN ALL THINGS.


                   SHOULD THE CHAPERONE BE RESTORED?

    TO THE EDITOR

    _Daily Express._

    SIR:

    A far more crying need than that of the Chaperone in these modern
    days is for a Supervisor of the middle-aged man who has allowed
    himself to get "out of shape."

    At Healthward Ho (formerly Graveney Court), in Worcestershire,
    where Doctor Alexander Twist, the well-known American physician and
    physical culture expert, ministers to such cases, wonders have been
    achieved by means of simple fare and mild, but regular, exercise.

    It is the boast of Doctor Twist that he makes New Men for Old.

                                                             I am, sir,
                                                              Yrs. etc.
                                                              VIGILANT.

These letters and many others, though bearing a pleasing variety of
signatures, proceeded in fact from a single gifted pen--that of Doctor
Twist himself--and among that class of the public which consistently
does itself too well when the gong goes and yet is never wholly free
from wistful aspirations toward a better liver they had created a
scattered but quite satisfactory interest in Healthward Ho. Clients
had enrolled themselves on the doctor's books, and now, on this summer
afternoon, he was enabled to look down from his study window at a group
of no fewer than eleven of them, skipping with skipping ropes under the
eye of his able and conscientious assistant, ex-Sergeant-Major Flannery.

Sherlock Holmes--and even, on one of his bright days, Doctor
Watson--could have told at a glance which of those muffled figures was
Mr. Flannery. He was the only one who went in instead of out at the
waist-line. All the others were well up in the class of man whom Julius
Cæsar once expressed a desire to have about him. And pre-eminent among
them in stoutness, dampness, and general misery was Mr. Lester Carmody,
of Rudge Hall.

The fact that Mr. Carmody was by several degrees the most
unhappy-looking member of this little band of martyrs was due to his
distress, unlike that of his fellow-sufferers, being mental as well as
physical. He was allowing his mind, for the hundredth time, to dwell on
the paralyzing cost of these hygienic proceedings.

Thirty guineas a week, thought Mr. Carmody as he bounded up and down.
Four pound ten a day.... Three shillings and ninepence an hour....
Three solid farthings a minute.... To meditate on these figures was
like turning a sword in his heart. For Lester Carmody loved money as he
loved nothing else in this world except a good dinner.

Doctor Twist turned from the window. A maid had appeared bearing a card
on a salver.

"Show him in," said Doctor Twist, having examined this. And presently
there entered a lissom young man in a gray flannel suit.

"Doctor Twist?"

"Yes, sir."

The newcomer seemed a little surprised. It was as if he had been
expecting something rather more impressive, and was wondering why, if
the proprietor of Healthward Ho had the ability which he claimed, to
make New Men for Old, he had not taken the opportunity of effecting
some alterations in himself. For Doctor Twist was a small man, and
weedy. He had a snub nose and an expression of furtive slyness. And he
wore a waxed moustache.

However, all this was not the visitor's business. If a man wishes to
wax his moustache, it is a matter between himself and his God.

"My name's Carmody," he said. "Hugo Carmody."

"Yes. I got your card."

"Could I have a word with my uncle?"

"Sure, if you don't mind waiting a minute. Right now," explained Doctor
Twist, with a gesture toward the window, "he's occupied."

Hugo moved to the window, looked out, and started violently.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed.

He gaped down at the group below. Mr. Carmody and colleagues
had now discarded the skipping ropes and were performing some
unpleasant-looking bending and stretching exercises, holding their
hands above their heads and swinging painfully from what one may
loosely term their waists. It was a spectacle well calculated to
astonish any nephew.

"How long has he got to go on like that?" asked Hugo, awed.

Doctor Twist looked at his watch.

"They'll be quitting soon now. Then a cold shower and rub down, and
they'll be through till lunch."

"Cold shower?"

"Yes."

"You mean to say you make my uncle Lester take cold shower baths?"

"That's right."

"Good God!"

A look of respect came into Hugo's face as he gazed upon this master
of men. Anybody who, in addition to making him tie himself in knots
under a blazing sun, could lure Uncle Lester within ten yards of a cold
shower bath was entitled to credit.

"I suppose after all this," he said, "they do themselves pretty well at
lunch?"

"They have a lean mutton chop apiece, with green vegetables and dry
toast."

"Is that all?"

"That's all."

"And to drink?"

"Just water."

"Followed, of course, by a spot of port?"

"No, sir."

"No port?"

"Certainly not."

"You mean--literally--no port?"

"Not a drop. If your old man had gone easier on the port, he'd not have
needed to come to Healthward Ho."

"I say," said Hugo, "did you invent that name?"

"Sure. Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. I just thought I'd ask."

"Say, while I think of it," said Doctor Twist, "have you any
cigarettes?"

"Oh, rather." Hugo produced a bulging case. "Turkish this side,
Virginian that."

"Not for me. I was only going to say that when you meet your uncle just
bear in mind he isn't allowed tobacco."

"Not allowed...? You mean to say you tie Uncle Lester into a lover's
knot, shoot him under a cold shower, push a lean chop into him
accompanied by water, and then don't even let the poor old devil get
his lips around a single gasper?"

"That's right."

"Well, all I can say is," said Hugo, "it's no life for a refined
Caucasian."

Dazed by the information he had received, he began to potter aimlessly
about the room. He was not particularly fond of his uncle. Mr. Carmody
Senior's practice of giving him no allowance and keeping him imprisoned
all the year round at Rudge would alone have been enough to check
anything in the nature of tenderness, but he did not think he deserved
quite all that seemed to be coming to him at Healthward Ho.

He mused upon his uncle. A complex character. A man with Lester
Carmody's loathing for expenditure ought by rights to have been a
simple liver, existing off hot milk and triturated sawdust like an
American millionaire. That Fate should have given him, together with
his prudence in money matters, a recklessness as regarded the pleasures
of the table seemed ironic.

"I see they've quit," said Doctor Twist, with a glance out of the
window. "If you want to have a word with your uncle you could do it
now. No bad news, I hope?"

"If there is I'm the one that's going to get it. Between you and me,"
said Hugo, who had no secrets from his fellow men, "I've come to try to
touch him for a bit of money."

"Is that so?" said Doctor Twist, interested. Anything to do with money
always interested the well-known American physician and physical
culture expert.

"Yes," said Hugo. "Five hundred quid, to be exact."

He spoke a little despondently, for, having arrived at the window
again, he was in a position now to take a good look at his uncle. And
so forbidding had bodily toil and mental disturbance rendered the
latter's expression that he found the fresh young hopes with which he
had started out on this expedition rapidly ebbing away. If Mr. Carmody
were to burst--and he looked as if he might do so at any moment--he,
Hugo, being his nearest of kin, would inherit, but, failing that,
there seemed to be no cash in sight whatever.

"Though when I say 'touch'," he went on, "I don't mean quite that. The
stuff is really mine. My father left me a few thousand, you see, but
most injudiciously made Uncle Lester my trustee, and I'm not allowed to
get at the capital without the old blighter's consent. And now a pal of
mine in London has written offering me a half share in a new night club
which he's starting if I will put up five hundred pounds."

"I see."

"And what I ask myself," said Hugo, "is will Uncle Lester part? That's
what I ask myself. I can't say I'm betting on it."

"From what I have seen of Mr. Carmody, I shouldn't say that parting was
the thing he does best."

"He's got absolutely no gift for it whatever," said Hugo gloomily.

"Well, I wish you luck," said Doctor Twist. "But don't you try to bribe
him with cigarettes."

"Do what?"

"Bribe him with cigarettes. After they have been taking the treatment
for a while, most of these birds would give their soul for a coffin
nail."

Hugo started. He had not thought of this; but, now that it had been
called to his attention, he saw that it was most certainly an idea.

"And don't keep him standing around longer than you can help. He ought
to get under that shower as soon as possible."

"I suppose I couldn't tell him that owing to my pleading and
persuasion you've consented to let him off a cold shower to-day?"

"No, sir."

"It would help," urged Hugo. "It might just sway the issue, as it were."

"Sorry. He must have his shower. When a man's been exercising and has
got himself into a perfect lather of sweat...."

"Keep it clean," said Hugo coldly. "There is no need to stress the
physical side. Oh, very well, then, I suppose I shall have to trust to
tact and charm of manner. But I wish to goodness I hadn't got to spring
business matters on him on top of what seems to have been a slightly
hectic morning."

He shot his cuffs, pulled down his waistcoat, and walked with a
resolute step out of the room. He was about to try to get into the ribs
of a man who for a lifetime had been saving up to be a miser and who,
even apart from this trait in his character, held the subversive view
that the less money young men had the better for them. Hugo was a gay
optimist, cheerful of soul and a mighty singer in the bath tub, but
he could not feel very sanguine. However, the Carmodys were a bulldog
breed. He decided to have a pop at it.


                                  II

Theoretically, no doubt, the process of exercising flaccid muscles,
opening hermetically sealed pores, and stirring up a liver which had
long supposed itself off the active list ought to engender in a man
a jolly sprightliness. In practice, however, this is not always so.
That Lester Carmody was in no radiant mood was shown at once by the
expression on his face as he turned in response to Hugo's yodel from
the rear. In spite of all that Healthward Ho had been doing to Mr.
Carmody this last ten days, it was plain that he had not yet got that
Kruschen feeling.

Nor, at the discovery that a nephew whom he had supposed to be twenty
miles away was standing at his elbow, did anything in the nature of
sudden joy help to fill him with sweetness and light.

"How the devil did you get here?" were his opening words of welcome.
His scarlet face vanished for an instant into the folds of a large
handkerchief; then reappeared, wearing a look of acute concern. "You
didn't," he quavered, "come in the Dex-Mayo?"

A thought to shake the sturdiest man. It was twenty miles from Rudge
Hall to Healthward Ho, and twenty miles back again from Healthward Ho
to Rudge Hall. The Dex-Mayo, that voracious car, consumed a gallon of
petrol for every ten miles it covered. And for a gallon of petrol they
extorted from you nowadays the hideous sum of one shilling and sixpence
halfpenny. Forty miles, accordingly, meant--not including oil, wear and
tear of engines, and depreciation of tires--a loss to his purse of over
six shillings--a heavy price to pay for the society of a nephew whom he
had disliked since boyhood.

"No, no," said Hugo hastily. "I borrowed John's two-seater,"

"Oh," said Mr. Carmody, relieved.

There was a pause, employed by Mr. Carmody in puffing; by Hugo in
trying to think of something to say that would be soothing, tactful,
ingratiating, and calculated to bring home the bacon. He turned over in
his mind one or two conversational gambits.

("Well, Uncle, you look very rosy."

Not quite right.

"I say, Uncle what ho the School-Girl Complexion?"

Absolutely _no_! The wrong tone altogether.

Ah! That was more like it. "Fit." Yes, that was the word.)

"You look very fit, Uncle," said Hugo.

Mr. Carmody's reply to this was to make a noise like a buffalo pulling
its foot out of a swamp. It might have been intended to be genial, or
it might not. Hugo could not tell. However, he was a reasonable young
man, and he quite understood that it would be foolish to expect the
milk of human kindness instantly to come gushing like a geyser out of
a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound uncle who had just been doing bending
and stretching exercises. He must be patient and suave--the Sympathetic
Nephew.

"I expect it's been pretty tough going, though," he proceeded. "I mean
to say, all these exercises and cold showers and lean chops and so
forth. Terribly trying. Very upsetting. A great ordeal. I think it's
wonderful the way you've stuck it out. Simply wonderful. It's Character
that does it. That's what it is. Character. Many men would have chucked
the whole thing up in the first two days."

"So would I," said Mr. Carmody, "only that damned doctor made me give
him a cheque in advance for the whole course."

Hugo felt damped. He had had some good things to say about Character,
and it seemed little use producing them now.

"Well, anyway, you look very fit. Very fit indeed. Frightfully fit.
Remarkably fit. Extraordinarily fit." He paused. This was getting him
nowhere. He decided to leap straight to the point at issue. To put his
fortune to the test, to win or lose it all. "I say, Uncle Lester, what
I really came about this afternoon was a matter of business."

"Indeed? I supposed you had come merely to babble. What business?"

"You know a friend of mine named Fish?"

"I do not know a friend of yours named Fish."

"Well, he's a friend of mine. His name's Fish. Ronnie Fish."

"What about him?"

"He's starting a new night club."

"I don't care," said Mr. Carmody, who did not.

"It's just off Bond Street, in the heart of London's pleasure-seeking
area. He's calling it the Hot Spot."

The only comment Mr. Carmody vouchsafed on this piece of information
was a noise like another buffalo. His face was beginning to lose its
vermilion tinge, and it seemed possible that in a few moments he might
come off the boil.

"I had a letter from him this morning. He says he will give me a half
share if I put up five hundred quid."

"Then you won't get a half share," predicted Mr. Carmody.

"But I've got five hundred. I mean to say, you're holding a lot more
than that in trust for me."

"Holding," said Mr. Carmody, "is the right word."

"But surely you'll let me have this quite trivial sum for a really
excellent business venture that simply can't fail? Ronnie knows all
about night clubs. He's practically lived in them since he came down
from Cambridge."

"I shall not give you a penny. Have you no conception of the duties of
a trustee? Trust money has to be invested in gilt-edged securities."

"You'll never find a gilter-edged security than a night club run by
Ronnie Fish."

"If you have finished this nonsense I will go and take my shower bath."

"Well, look here, Uncle, may I invite Ronnie to Rudge, so that you can
have a talk with him?"

"You may not. I have no desire to talk with him."

"You'd like Ronnie. He has an aunt in the looney-bin."

"Do you consider that a recommendation?"

"No, I just mentioned it."

"Well, I refuse to have him at Rudge."

"But listen, Uncle. The vicar will be round any day now to get me to
perform at the village concert. If Ronnie were on the spot, he and I
could do the Quarrel Scene from _Julius Cæsar_ and really give the
customers something for their money."

Even this added inducement did not soften Mr. Carmody.

"I will not invite your friends to Rudge."

"Right ho," said Hugo, a game loser. He was disappointed, but not
surprised. All along he had felt that that Hot Spot business was merely
a Utopian dream. There are some men who are temperamentally incapable
of parting with five hundred pounds, and his uncle Lester was one of
them. But in the matter of a smaller sum it might be that he would
prove more pliable, and of this smaller sum Hugo had urgent need.
"Well, then, putting that aside," he said, "there's another thing I'd
like to chat about for a moment, if you don't mind."

"I do," said Mr. Carmody.

"There's a big fight on to-night at the Albert Hall. Eustace Rodd
and Cyril Warburton are going twenty rounds for the welter-weight
championship. Have you ever noticed," said Hugo, touching on a matter
to which he had given some thought, "a rather odd thing about boxers
these days? A few years ago you never heard of one that wasn't Beefy
This or Porky That or Young Cat's-meat or something. But now they're
all Claudes and Harolds and Cuthberts. And when you consider that the
heavyweight champion of the world is actually named Eugene, it makes
you think a bit. However, be that as it may, these two birds are going
twenty rounds to-night, and there you are."

"What," inquired Mr. Carmody, "is all this drivel?"

He eyed his young relative balefully. In an association that had lasted
many years, he had found Hugo consistently irritating to his nervous
system, and he was finding him now rather more trying than usual.

"I only meant to point out that Ronnie Fish has sent me a ticket,
and I thought that, if you were to spring a tenner for the necessary
incidental expenses--bed, breakfast, and so on ... well, there I would
be, don't you know."

"You mean you wish to go to London to see a boxing contest?"

"That's it."

"Well, you're not going. You know I have expressly forbidden you to
visit London. The last time I was weak enough to allow you to go there,
what happened? You spent the night in a police station."

"Yes, but that was Boat-Race Night."

"And I had to pay five pounds for your fine."

Hugo dismissed the past with a gesture.

"The whole thing," he said, "was an unfortunate misunderstanding, and,
if you ask me, the verdict of posterity will be that the policeman was
far more to blame than I was. They're letting a bad type of men into
the force nowadays. I've noticed it on several occasions. Besides, it
won't happen again."

"You are right. It will not."

"On second thoughts, then, you will spring that tenner?"

"On first, second, third, and fourth thoughts I will do nothing of the
kind."

"But, Uncle, do you realize what it would mean if you did?"

"The interpretation I would put upon it is that I was suffering from
senile decay."

"What it would mean is that I should feel you trusted me, Uncle Lester,
that you had faith in me. There's nothing so dangerous as a want of
trust. Ask anybody. It saps a young man's character."

"Let it," said Mr. Carmody callously.

"If I went to London, I could see Ronnie Fish and explain all the
circumstances about my not being able to go into that Hot Spot thing
with him."

"You can do that by letter."

"It's so hard to put things properly in a letter."

"Then put them improperly," said Mr. Carmody. "Once and for all, you
are not going to London."

He had started to turn away as the only means possible of concluding
this interview, when he stopped, spellbound. For Hugo, as was his habit
when matters had become difficult and required careful thought, was
pulling out of his pocket a cigarette case.

"Goosh!" said Mr. Carmody, or something that sounded like that.

He made an involuntary motion with his hand, as a starving man will
make toward bread: and Hugo, with a strong rush of emotion, realized
that the happy ending had been achieved and that at the eleventh hour
matters could at last be put on a satisfactory business basis.

"Turkish this side, Virginian that," he said. "You can have the lot for
ten quid."

"Say, I think you'd best be getting along and taking your shower, Mr.
Carmody," said the voice of Doctor Twist, who had come up unobserved
and was standing at his elbow.

The proprietor of Healthward Ho had a rather unpleasant voice, but
never had it seemed so unpleasant to Mr. Carmody as it did at that
moment. Parsimonious though he was, he would have given much for the
privilege of heaving a brick at Doctor Twist. For at the very instant
of this interruption he had conceived the Machiavellian idea of
knocking the cigarette case out of Hugo's hand and grabbing what he
could from the débris: and now this scheme must be abandoned.

With a snort which came from the very depths of an overwrought soul,
Lester Carmody turned and shuffled off toward the house.

"Say, you shouldn't have done that," said Doctor Twist, waggling a
reproachful head at Hugo. "No, sir, you shouldn't have done that. Not
right to tantalize the poor fellow."

Hugo's mind seldom ran on parallel lines with that of his uncle, but it
was animated now by the identical thought which only a short while back
Mr. Carmody had so wistfully entertained. He, too, was feeling that
what Doctor Twist needed was a brick thrown at him. When he was able to
speak, however, he did not mention this, but kept the conversation on a
pacific and businesslike note.

"I say," he said, "you couldn't lend me a tenner, could you?"

"I could not," agreed Doctor Twist.

In Hugo's mind the inscrutable problem of why an all-wise Creator
should have inflicted a man like this on the world deepened.

"Well, I'll be pushing along, then," he said moodily.

"Going already?"

"Yes, I am."

"I hope," said Doctor Twist, as he escorted his young guest to his
car, "you aren't sore at me for calling you down about those student's
lamps. You see, maybe your uncle was hoping you would slip him one, and
the disappointment will have made him kind of mad. And part of the
system here is to have the patients think tranquil thoughts."

"Think what?"

"Tranquil, beautiful thoughts. You see, if your mind's all right, your
body's all right. That's the way I look at it."

Hugo settled himself at the wheel.

"Let's get this clear," he said. "You expect my uncle Lester to think
beautiful thoughts?"

"All the time."

"Even under a cold shower?"

"Yes, sir."

"God bless you!" said Hugo.

He stepped on the self-starter, and urged the two-seater pensively
down the drive. He was glad when the shrubberies hid him from the view
of Doctor Twist, for one wanted to forget a fellow like that as soon
as possible. A moment later, he was still gladder: for, as he turned
the first corner, there popped out suddenly from a rhododendron bush
a stout man with a red and streaming face. Lester Carmody had had to
hurry, and he was not used to running.

"Woof!" he ejaculated, barring the fairway.

Relief flooded over Hugo. The marts of trade had not been closed after
all.

"Give me those cigarettes!" panted Mr. Carmody.

For an instant Hugo toyed with the idea of creating a rising market.
But he was no profiteer. Hugo Carmody, the Square Dealer.

"Ten quid," he said, "and they're yours."

Agony twisted Mr. Carmody's glowing features.

"Five," he urged.

"Ten," said Hugo.

"Eight."

"Ten."

Mr. Carmody made the great decision.

"Very well. Give me them. Quick."

"Turkish this side, Virginian that," said Hugo.

The rhododendron bush quivered once more from the passage of a heavy
body: birds in the neighbouring trees began to sing again their anthems
of joy: and Hugo, in his trousers pocket two crackling five-pound
notes, was bowling off along the highway.

Even Doctor Twist could have found nothing to cavil at in the beauty
of the thoughts he was thinking. He carolled like a linnet in the
springtime.




                              CHAPTER III


"Yes, sir," Hugo Carmody was assuring a listening world as he turned
the two-seater in at the entrance of the stable yard of Rudge Hall some
thirty minutes later, "that's my baby. No, sir, don't mean maybe. Yes,
sir, that's my baby now. And, by the way, by the way...."

"Blast you!" said his cousin John, appearing from nowhere. "Get out of
that car."

"Hullo, John," said Hugo. "So there you are, John. I say, John, I've
just been paying a call on the head of the family over at Healthward
Ho. Why they don't run excursion trains of sightseers there is more
than I can understand. It's worth seeing, believe me. Large, fat men
doing bending and stretching exercises. Tons of humanity leaping about
with skipping ropes. Never a dull moment from start to finish, and
all clean, wholesome fun, mark you, without a taint of vulgarity or
suggestiveness. Pack some sandwiches and bring the kiddies. And let me
tell you the best thing of all, John...."

"I can't stop to listen. You've made me late already."

"Late for what?"

"I'm going to London."

"You are?" said Hugo, with a smile at the happy coincidence. "So am I.
You can give me a lift."

"I won't."

"I am certainly not going to run behind."

"You're not going to London."

"You bet I'm going to London."

"Well, go by train, then."

"And break into hard-won cash, every penny of which will be needed for
the big time in the metropolis? A pretty story!"

"Well, anyway, you aren't coming with me."

"Why not?"

"I don't want you."

"John," said Hugo, "there is more in this than meets the eye. You can't
deceive me. You are going to London for a purpose. What purpose?"

"If you really want to know, I'm going to see Pat."

"What on earth for? She'll be here to-morrow. I looked in at Chas.
Bywater's this morning for some cigarettes--and, gosh, how lucky it was
I did!--by the way, he's putting them down to you--and he told me she's
arriving by the three-o'clock train."

"I know. Well, I happen to want to see her very particularly to-night."

Hugo eyed his cousin narrowly. He was marshalling the facts and drawing
conclusions.

"John," he said, "this can mean but one thing. You are driving a
hundred miles in a shaky car--that left front tire wants a spot of
air. I should look to it before you start, if I were you--to see a
girl whom you could see to-morrow in any case by the simple process of
meeting the three-o'clock train. Your state of mind is such that you
prefer--actually prefer--not to have my company. And, as I look at you,
I note that you are blushing prettily. I see it all. You've at last
decided to propose to Pat. Am I right or wrong?"

John drew a deep breath. He was not one of those men who derive
pleasure from parading their inmost feelings and discussing with others
the secrets of their hearts. Hugo, in a similar situation, would have
advertised his love like the hero of a musical comedy; he would have
made the round of his friends, confiding in them; and, when the supply
of friends had given out, would have buttonholed the gardener. But
John was different. To hear his aspirations put into bald words like
this made him feel as if he were being divested of most of his more
important garments in a crowded thoroughfare.

"Well, that settles it," said Hugo briskly. "Such being the case, of
course you must take me along. I will put in a good word for you. Pave
the way."

"Listen," said John, finding speech. "If you dare to come within twenty
miles of us...."

"It would be wiser. You know what you're like. Heart of gold but no
conversation. Try to tackle this on your own and you'll bungle it."

"You keep out of this," said John, speaking in a low, husky voice that
suggested the urgent need of one of those throat lozenges purveyed by
Chas. Bywater and so esteemed by the dog Emily. "You keep right out of
this."

Hugo shrugged his shoulders.

"Just as you please. Hugo Carmody is the last man," he said, a little
stiffly, "to thrust his assistance on those who do not require same.
But a word from me would make all the difference, and you know it.
Rightly or wrongly, Pat has always looked up to me, regarded me as
a wise elder brother, and, putting it in a nutshell, hung upon my
lips. I could start you off right. However, since you're so blasted
independent, carry on, only bear this in mind--when it's all over and
you are shedding scalding tears of remorse and thinking of what might
have been, don't come yowling to me for sympathy, because there won't
be any."

John went upstairs and packed his bag. He packed well and thoroughly.
This done, he charged down the stairs, and perceived with annoyance
that Hugo was still inflicting the stable yard with his beastly
presence.

But Hugo was not there to make jarring conversation. He was present
now, it appeared, solely in the capacity of Good Angel.

"I've fixed up that tire," said Hugo, "and filled the tank and put in a
drop of oil and passed an eye over the machinery in general. She ought
to run nicely now."

John melted. His mood had softened, and he was in a fitter frame of
mind to remember that he had always been fond of his cousin.

"Thanks. Very good of you. Well, good-bye."

"Good-bye," said Hugo. "And heaven speed your wooing, boy."

Freed from the restrictions placed upon a light two-seater by the
ruts and hillocks of country lanes, John celebrated his arrival on
the broad main road that led to London by placing a large foot on the
accelerator and keeping it there. He was behind time, and he intended
to test a belief which he had long held, that a Widgeon Seven can, if
pressed, do fifty. To the scenery, singularly beautiful in this part
of England, he paid no attention. Automatically avoiding wagons by an
inch and dreamily putting thoughts of the hereafter into the startled
minds of dogs and chickens, he was out of Worcestershire and into
Gloucestershire almost before he had really settled in his seat. It
was only when the long wall that fringes Blenheim Park came into view
that it was borne in upon him that he would be reaching Oxford in a
few minutes and could stop for a well-earned cup of tea. He noted with
satisfaction that he was nicely ahead of the clock.

He drifted past the Martyrs' Memorial, and, picking his way through the
traffic, drew up at the door of the Clarendon. He alighted stiffly, and
stretched himself. And as he did so, something caught his attention out
of the corner of his eye. It was his cousin Hugo, climbing down from
the dickey.

"A very nice run," said Hugo with satisfaction. "I should say we made
pretty good time."

He radiated kindliness and satisfaction with all created things. That
John was looking at him in rather a peculiar way, and apparently trying
to say something, he did not seem to notice.

"A little refreshment would be delightful," he observed. "Dusty work,
sitting in dickeys. By the way, I got on to Pat on the 'phone before
we left, and there's no need to hurry. She's dining out and going to a
theatre to-night."

"What!" cried John, in agony.

"It's all right. Don't get the wind up. She's meeting us at
eleven-fifteen at the Mustard Spoon. I'll come on there from the
fight and we'll have a nice home evening. I'm still a member, so I'll
sign you in. And, what's more, if all goes well at the Albert Hall
and Cyril Warburton is half the man I think he is and I can get some
sporting stranger to bet the other way at reasonable odds, I'll pay the
bill."

"You're very kind!"

"I try to be, John," said Hugo modestly. "I try to be. I don't think we
ought to leave it all to the Boy Scouts."




                              CHAPTER IV


                                   I

A man whose uncle jerks him away from London as if he were picking a
winkle out of its shell with a pin and keeps him for months and months
immured in the heart of Worcestershire must inevitably lose touch
with the swiftly-changing kaleidoscope of metropolitan night-life.
Nothing in a big city fluctuates more rapidly than the status of its
supper-dancing clubs; and Hugo, had he still been a lad-about-town in
good standing, would have been aware that recently the Mustard Spoon
had gone down a good deal in the social scale. Society had migrated to
other, newer institutions, leaving it to become the haunt of the lesser
ornaments of the stage and the Portuguese, the Argentines and the
Greeks.

To John Carroll, however, as he stood waiting in the lobby, the place
seemed sufficiently gay and glittering. Nearly a year had passed since
his last visit to London: and the Mustard Spoon rather impressed him.
An unseen orchestra was playing with extraordinary vigour, and from
time to time ornate persons of both sexes drifted past him into the
brightly lighted supper room. Where an established connoisseur of
night clubs would have pursed his lips and shaken his head, John was
conscious only of feeling decidedly uplifted and exhilarated.

But then he was going to see Pat again, and that was enough to
stimulate any man.

She arrived unexpectedly, at a moment when he had taken his eye off the
door to direct it in mild astonishment at a lady in an orange dress
who, doubtless with the best motives, had dyed her hair crimson and was
wearing a black-rimmed monocle. So absorbed was he with this spectacle
that he did not see her enter, and was only made aware of her presence
when there spoke from behind him a clear little voice which, even when
it was laughing at you, always seemed to have in it something of the
song of larks on summer mornings and winds whispering across the fields
in spring.

"Hullo, Johnnie."

The hair, scarlet though it was, lost its power to attract. The appeal
of the monocle waned. John spun round.

"Pat!"

She was looking lovelier than ever. That was the thing that first
presented itself to John's notice. If anybody had told him that Pat
could possibly be prettier than the image of her which he had been
carrying about with him all these months, he would not have believed
him. But so it was. Some sort of a female with plucked eyebrows and
a painted face had just come in, and she might have been put there
expressly for purposes of comparison. She made Pat seem so healthy,
so wholesome, such a thing of the open air and the clean sunshine,
so pre-eminently fit. She looked as if she had spent her time at Le
Touquet playing thirty-six holes of golf a day.

"Pat!" cried John, and something seemed to catch at his throat. There
was a mist in front of his eyes. His heart was thumping madly.

She extended her hand composedly. In her this meeting after long
separation had apparently stirred no depths. Her demeanour was
friendly, but matter-of-fact.

"Well, Johnnie. How nice to see you again. You're looking very brown
and rural. Where's Hugo?"

It takes two to hoist a conversation to an emotional peak. John choked,
and became calmer.

"He'll be here soon, I expect," he said.

Pat laughed indulgently.

"Hugo'll be late for his own funeral--if he ever gets to it. He said
eleven-fifteen and it's twenty-five to twelve. Have you got a table?"

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"I'm not a member," said John, and saw in her eyes the scorn which
women reserve for male friends and relations who show themselves
wanting in enterprise. "You have to be a member," he said, chafing
under the look.

"I don't," said Pat with decision. "If you think I'm going to wait all
night for old Hugo in a small lobby with six draughts whizzing through
it, correct that impression. Go and find the head waiter and get a
table while I leave my cloak. Back in a minute."

John's emotions as he approached the head waiter rather resembled
those with which years ago he had once walked up to a bull in a field,
Pat having requested him to do so because she wanted to know if bulls
in fields really are fierce or if the artists who depict them in
comic papers are simply trying to be funny. He felt embarrassed and
diffident. The head waiter was a large, stout, smooth-faced man who
would have been better for a couple of weeks at Healthward Ho, and he
gave the impression of having disliked John from the start.

John said it was a nice evening. The head waiter did not seem to
believe him.

"Has--er--has Mr. Carmody booked a table?" asked John.

"No, monsieur."

"I'm meeting him here to-night."

The head waiter appeared uninterested. He began to talk to an underling
in rapid French. John, feeling more than ever an intruder, took
advantage of a lull in the conversation to make another attempt.

"I wonder.... Perhaps.... Can you give me a table?"

Most of the head waiter's eyes were concealed by the upper strata of
his cheeks, but there was enough of them left visible to allow him to
look at John as if he were something unpleasant that had come to light
in a portion of salad.

"Monsieur is a member?"

"Er--no."

"If you will please wait in the lobby, thank you."

"But I was wondering...."

"If you will wait in the lobby, please," said the head waiter, and,
dismissing John from the scheme of things, became gruesomely obsequious
to an elderly man with diamond studs, no hair, an authoritative
manner, and a lady in pink. He waddled before them into the supper
room, and Pat reappeared.

"Got that table?"

"I'm afraid not. He says...."

"Oh, Johnnie, you are maddening. Why are you so helpless?"

Women are unjust in these matters. When a man comes into a night club
of which he is not a member and asks for a table he feels that he is
butting in, and naturally is not at his best. This is not helplessness,
it is fineness of soul. But women won't see that.

"I'm awfully sorry."

The head waiter had returned, and was either doing sums or drawing
caricatures on a large pad chained to a desk. He seemed so much the
artist absorbed in his work that John would not have dreamed of
venturing to interrupt him. Pat had no such delicacy.

"I want a table, please," said Pat.

"Madame is a member?"

"A table, please. A nice, large one. I like plenty of room. And when
Mr. Carmody arrives tell him that Miss Wyvern and Mr. Carroll are
inside."

"Very good, madame. Certainly, madame. This way, madame."

Just as simple as that! John, making a physically impressive but
spiritually negligible tail to the procession, wondered, as he crossed
the polished floor, how Pat did these things. It was not as if she
were one of those massive, imperious women whom you would naturally
expect to quell head waiters with a glance. She was no Cleopatra, no
Catherine of Russia--just a slim, slight girl with a tip-tilted nose.
And yet she had taken this formidable magnifico in her stride, kicked
him lightly in the face, and passed on. He sat down, thrilled with a
worshipping admiration.

Pat, as always happened after one of her little spurts of irritability,
was apologetic.

"Sorry I bit your head off, Johnnie," she said. "It was a shame, after
you had come all this way just to see an old friend. But it makes me so
angry when you're meek and sheep-y and let people trample on you. Still
I suppose it's not your fault." She smiled across at him. "You always
were a slow, good-natured old thing, weren't you, like one of those big
dogs that come and bump their head on your lap and snuffle. Poor old
Johnnie!"

John felt depressed. The picture she had conjured up was not a
flattering one; and, as for this "Poor Old Johnnie!" stuff, it struck
just the note he most wanted to avoid. If one thing is certain in the
relations of the sexes, it is that the Poor Old Johnnies of this world
get nowhere. But before he could put any of these feelings into words
Pat had changed the subject.

"Johnnie," she said, "what's all this trouble between your uncle and
Father? I had a letter from Father a couple of weeks ago, and as far as
I could make out Mr. Carmody seems to have been trying to murder him.
What's it all about?"

Not so eloquently, nor with such a wealth of imagery as Colonel Wyvern
had employed in sketching out the details of the affair of the dynamite
outrage for the benefit of Chas. Bywater, Chemist, John answered the
question.

"Good heavens!" said Pat.

"I--I hope...." said John.

"What do you hope?"

"Well, I--I hope it's not going to make any difference?"

"Difference? How do you mean?"

"Between us. Between you and me, Pat."

"What sort of difference?"

John had his cue.

"Pat, darling, in all these years we've known one another haven't you
ever guessed that I've been falling more and more in love with you
every minute? I can't remember a time when I didn't love you. I loved
you as a kid in short skirts and a blue jersey. I loved you when you
came back from that school of yours, looking like a princess. And
I love you now more than I have ever loved you. I worship you, Pat
darling. You're the whole world to me, just the one thing that matters
the least little bit. And don't you try to start laughing at me again
now, because I've made up my mind that, whatever else you laugh at,
you've got to take me seriously. I may have been Poor Old Johnnie in
the past, but the time has come when you've got to forget all that. I
mean business. You're going to marry me, and the sooner you make up
your mind to it, the better."

That was what John had intended to say. What he actually did say was
something briefer and altogether less effective.

"Oh, I don't know," said John.

"Do you mean you're afraid I'm going to stop being friends with you
just because my father and your uncle have had a quarrel?"

"Yes," said John. It was not quite all he had meant, but it gave the
general idea.

"What a weird notion! After all these years? Good heavens, no. I'm much
too fond of you, Johnnie."

Once more John had his cue. And this time he was determined that he
would not neglect it. He stiffened his courage. He cleared his throat.
He clutched the tablecloth.

"Pat...."

"Oh, there's Hugo at last," she said, looking past him. "And about
time. I'm starving. Hullo! Who are the people he's got with him? Do you
know them?"

John heaved a silent sigh. Yes, he could have counted on Hugo arriving
at just this moment. He turned, and perceived that unnecessary young
man crossing the floor. With him were a middle-aged man and a younger
and extremely dashing-looking girl. They were complete strangers to
John.


                                  II

Hugo pranced buoyantly up to the table, looking like the Laughing
Cavalier, clean-shaved.

He was wearing the unmistakable air of a man who has been to a
welter-weight boxing contest at the Albert Hall and backed the winner.

"Hullo, Pat," he said jovially. "Hullo, John. Sorry I'm late. Mitt--if
that is the word I want--my dear old friend ... I've forgotten your
name," he added, turning to his companion.

"Molloy, brother. Thomas G. Molloy."

Hugo's dear old friend spoke in a deep, rich voice, well in keeping
with his appearance. He was a fine, handsome, open-faced person in the
early forties, with grizzled hair that swept in a wave off a massive
forehead. His nationality was plainly American, and his aspect vaguely
senatorial.

"Molloy," said Hugo, "Thomas G. and daughter. This is Miss Wyvern. And
this is my cousin, Mr. Carroll. And now," said Hugo, relieved at having
finished with the introductions, "let's try to get a bit of supper."

The service at the Mustard Spoon is not what it was; but by the
simple process of clutching at the coat tails of a passing waiter and
holding him till he consented to talk business Hugo contrived to get
fairly rapid action. Then, after an interval of the rather difficult
conversation which usually marks the first stages of this sort of
party, the orchestra burst into a sudden torrent of what it evidently
mistook for music and Thomas G. Molloy rose and led Miss Molloy out on
to the floor. He danced a little stiffly, but he knew how to give the
elbow and he appeared, as the crowd engulfed him, to be holding his own.

"Who are your friends, Hugo?" asked Pat.

"Thos. G...."

"Yes, I know. But who are they?"

"Well, there," said Hugo, "you rather have me. I sat next to Thos. at
the fight, and I rather took to the fellow. He seemed to me a man full
of noble qualities, including a looney idea that Eustace Rodd was some
good as a boxer. He actually offered to give me three to one, and I
cleaned up substantially at the end of the seventh round. After that, I
naturally couldn't very well get out of giving the man supper. And as
he had promised to take his daughter out to-night, I said bring her
along. You don't mind?"

"Of course not. Though it would have been cosier, just we three."

"Quite true. But never forget that, if it had not been for this Thos.,
you would not be getting the jolly good supper which I have now ample
funds to supply. You may look on Thos. as practically the Founder of
the Feast." He cast a wary eye at his cousin, who was leaning back in
his chair with the abstracted look of one in deep thought. "Has old
John said anything to you yet?"

"John? What do you mean? What about?"

"Oh, things in general. Come and dance this. I want to have a very
earnest word with you, young Pat. Big things are in the wind."

"You're very mysterious."

"Ah!" said Hugo.

Left alone at the table with nothing to entertain him but his
thoughts, John came almost immediately to the conclusion that his
first verdict on the Mustard Spoon had been an erroneous one. Looking
at it superficially, he had mistaken it for rather an attractive
place: but now, with maturer judgment, he saw it for what it was--a
blot on a great city. It was places like the Mustard Spoon that made
a man despair of progress. He disliked the clientèle. He disliked the
head waiter. He disliked the orchestra. The clientèle was flashy and
offensive and, as regarded the male element of it, far too given to the
use of hair oil. The head waiter was a fat parasite who needed kicking.
And, as for Ben Baermann's Collegiate Buddies, he resented the fact
that they were being paid for making the sort of noises which he,
when a small boy, had produced--for fun and with no thought of sordid
gain--on a comb with a bit of tissue paper over it.

He was brooding on the scene in much the same spirit of captious
criticism as that in which Lot had once regarded the Cities of the
Plain, when the Collegiate Buddies suddenly suspended their cacophony,
and he saw Pat and Hugo coming back to the table.

But the Buddies had only been crouching, the better to spring. A moment
later they were at it again, and Pat, pausing, looked expectantly at
Hugo.

Hugo shook his head.

"I've just seen Ronnie Fish up in the balcony," he said. "I positively
must go and confer with him. I have urgent matters to discuss with the
old leper. Sit down and talk to John. You've got lots to talk about.
See you anon. And, if there's anything you want, order it, paying no
attention whatever to the prices in the right-hand column. Thanks to
Thos., I'm made of money to-night."

Hugo melted away: Pat sat down: and John, with another abrupt change
of mood, decided that he had misjudged the Mustard Spoon. A very
jolly little place, when you looked at it in the proper spirit. Nice
people, a distinctly lovable head waiter, and as attractive a lot of
musicians as he remembered ever to have seen. He turned to Pat, to seek
her confirmation of these views, and, meeting her gaze, experienced a
rather severe shock. Her eyes seemed to have frozen over. They were
cold and hard. Taken in conjunction with the fact that her nose turned
up a little at the end, they gave her face a scornful and contemptuous
look.

"Hullo!" he said, alarmed. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Why are you looking like that?"

"Like what?"

"Well...."

John had little ability as a word painter. He could not on the spur of
the moment give anything in the nature of detailed description of the
way Pat was looking. He only knew he did not like it.

"I suppose you expected me to look at you 'with eyes overrunning with
laughter'?"

"Eh?"

"'Archly the maiden smiled, and with eyes overrunning with laughter
said in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?"'"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you know _The Courtship of Miles Standish_? I thought that
must have been where you got the idea. I had to learn chunks of it at
school, and even at that tender age I always thought Miles Standish a
perfect goop. 'If the great captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed
me, Why does he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me? If I
am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning.' And yards
more of it. I knew it by heart once. Well, what I want to know is, do
you expect my answer direct, or would you prefer that I communicated
with your agent?"

"I don't understand."

"Don't you? No? Really?"

"Pat, what's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing much. When we were dancing just now, Hugo proposed to me."

A cold hand clutched at John's heart. He had not a high opinion of his
cousin's fascinations, but the thought of anybody but himself proposing
to Pat was a revolting one.

"Oh, did he?'

"Yes, he did. For you."

"For me? How do you mean, for me?"

"I'm telling you. He asked me to marry you. And very eloquent he was,
too. All the people who heard him--and there must have been dozens who
did--were much impressed."

She stopped: and, as far as such a thing is possible at the Mustard
Spoon when Baermann's Collegiate Buddies are giving an encore of "My
Sweetie Is A Wow," there was silence. Emotion of one sort or another
had deprived Pat of words: and, as for John, he was feeling as if he
could never speak again.

He had flushed a dusky red, and his collar had suddenly become so tight
that he had all the sensations of a man who is being garrotted. And so
powerfully had the shock of this fearful revelation affected his mind
that his only coherent thought was a desire to follow Hugo up to the
balcony, tear him limb from limb, and scatter the fragments onto the
tables below.

Pat was the first to find speech. She spoke quickly, stormily.

"I can't understand you, Johnnie. You never used to be such a
jellyfish. You did have a mind of your own once. But now ... I believe
it's living at Rudge all the time that has done it. You've got lazy
and flabby. It's turned you into a vegetable. You just loaf about and
go on and on, year after year, having your three fat meals a day and
your comfortable rooms and your hot-water bottle at night...."

"I don't!" cried John, stung by this monstrous charge from the coma
which was gripping him.

"Well, bed socks, then," amended Pat. "You've just let yourself be
cosseted and pampered and kept in comfort till the You that used to be
there has withered away and you've gone blah. My dear, good Johnnie,"
said Pat vehemently, riding over his attempt at speech and glaring at
him above a small, perky nose whose tip had begun to quiver even as it
had always done when she lost her temper as a child. "My poor, idiotic,
flabby, fat-headed Johnnie, do you seriously expect a girl to want to
marry a man who hasn't the common, elementary pluck to propose to her
for himself and has to get someone else to do it for him?"

"I didn't!"

"You did."

"I tell you I did not."

"You mean you never asked Hugo to sound me out?"

"Of course not. Hugo is a meddling, officious idiot, and if I'd got him
here now, I'd wring his neck."

He scowled up at the balcony. Hugo, who happened to be looking down at
the moment, beamed encouragingly and waved a friendly hand as if to
assure his cousin that he was with him in spirit. Silence, tempered
by the low wailing of the Buddy in charge of the saxophone and the
unpleasant howling of his college friends, who had just begun to sing
the chorus, fell once more.

"This opens up a new line of thought," said Pat at length. "Our Miss
Wyvern appears to have got the wires crossed," she looked at him
meditatively. "It's funny. Hugo seemed so convinced about the way you
felt."

John's collar tightened up another half inch, but he managed to get his
vocal chords working.

"He was quite right about the way I felt."

"You mean.... Really?"

"Yes."

"You mean you're ... fond of me?"

"Yes."

"But, Johnnie!"

"Damn it, are you blind?" cried John, savage from shame and the agony
of harrowed feelings, not to mention a collar which appeared to have
been made for a man half his size. "Can't you see? Don't you know I've
always loved you? Yes, even when you were a kid."

"But, Johnnie, Johnnie, Johnnie!" Distress was making Pat's silver
voice almost squeaky. "You can't have done. I was a horrible kid. I did
nothing but bully you from morning till night."

"I liked it."

"But how can you want me to marry you? We know each other too well.
I've always looked on you as a sort of brother."

There are words in the language which are like a knell. Keats
considered "forlorn" one of them. John Carroll was of opinion that
"brother" was a second.

"Oh, I know. I was a fool. I knew you would simply laugh at me."

Pat's eyes were misty. The tip of her nose no longer quivered, but now
it was her mouth that did so. She reached out across the table and her
hand rested on his for a brief instant.

"I'm not laughing at you, Johnnie, you--you chump. What would I want to
laugh at you for? I'm much nearer crying. I'd do anything in the world
rather than hurt you. You must know that. You're the dearest old thing
that ever lived. There's no one on earth I'm fonder of." She paused.
"But this ... it--it simply isn't on the board."

She was looking at him, furtively, taking advantage of the fact
that his face was turned away and his eyes fixed on the broad,
swallow-tailed back of Mr. Ben Baermann. It was odd, she felt, all very
odd. If she had been asked to describe the sort of man whom one of
these days she hoped to marry, the description, curiously enough, would
not have been at all unlike dear old Johnnie. He had the right clean,
fit look--she knew she could never give a thought to anything but an
outdoor man--and the straightness and honesty and kindliness which she
had come, after moving for some years in a world where they were rare,
to look upon as the highest of masculine qualities. Nobody could have
been farther than John from the little, black-moustached dancing-man
type which was her particular aversion, and yet ... well, the idea of
becoming his wife was just simply too absurd and that was all there was
to it.

But why? What, then, was wrong with Johnnie? Simply, she felt, the
fact that he was Johnnie. Marriage, as she had always envisaged it,
was an adventure. Poor cosy, solid old Johnnie would have to display
quite another side of himself, if such a side existed, before she could
regard it as an adventure to marry him.

"That man," said John, indicating Mr. Baermann, "looks like a Jewish
black beetle."

Pat was relieved. If by this remark he was indicating that he wished
the recent episode to be taken as concluded, she was very willing to
oblige him.

"Doesn't he?" she said. "I don't know where they can have dug him up
from. The last time I was here, a year ago, they had another band, a
much better one. I think this place has gone down. I don't like the
look of some of these people. What do you think of Hugo's friends?"

"They seem all right." John cast a moody eye at Miss Molloy, a
prismatic vision seen fitfully through the crowd. She was laughing, and
showing in the process teeth of a flashing whiteness. "The girl's the
prettiest girl I've seen for a long time."

Pat gave an imperceptible start. She was suddenly aware of a feeling
which was remarkably like uneasiness. It lurked at the back of her
consciousness like a small formless cloud.

"Oh!" she said.

Yes, the feeling was uneasiness. Any other man who at such a moment had
said those words she would have suspected of a desire to pique her, to
stir her interest by a rather obviously assumed admiration of another.
But not John. He was much too honest. If Johnnie said a thing, he meant
it.

A quick flicker of concern passed through Pat. She was always candid
with herself, and she knew quite well that, though she did not want
to marry him, she regarded John as essentially a piece of personal
property. If he had fallen in love with her, that was, of course, a
pity: but it would, she realized, be considerably more of a pity if he
ever fell in love with someone else. A Johnnie gone out of her life and
assimilated into that of another girl would leave a frightful gap. The
Mustard Spoon was one of those stuffy, overheated places, but, as she
meditated upon this possibility, Pat shivered.

"Oh!" she said.

The music stopped. The floor emptied. Mr. Molloy and his daughter
returned to the table. Hugo remained up in the gallery, in earnest
conversation with his old friend, Mr. Fish.


                                  III

Ronald Overbury Fish was a pink-faced young man of small stature and
extraordinary solemnity. He had been at school with Hugo and also at
the university. Eton was entitled to point with pride at both of them,
and only had itself to blame if it failed to do so. The same remark
applies to Trinity College, Cambridge. From earliest days Hugo had
always entertained for R. O. Fish an intense and lively admiration,
and the thought of being compelled to let his old friend down in this
matter of the Hot Spot was doing much to mar an otherwise jovial
evening.

"I'm most frightfully sorry, Ronnie, old thing," he said immediately
the first greetings were over. "I sounded the aged relative this
afternoon about that business, and there's nothing doing."

"No hope?"

"None."

Ronnie Fish surveyed the dancers below with a grave eye. He removed the
stub of his cigarette from its eleven-inch holder, and recharged that
impressive instrument.

"Did you reason with the old pest?"

"You can't reason with my uncle Lester."

"I could," said Mr. Fish.

Hugo did not doubt this. Ronnie, in his opinion, was capable of any
feat.

"Yes, but the only trouble is," he explained, "you would have to do it
at long range. I asked if I might invite you down to Rudge and he would
have none of it."

Ronnie Fish relapsed into silence. It seemed to Hugo, watching him,
that that great brain was busy, but upon what train of thought he could
not conjecture.

"Who are those people you're with?" he asked at length.

"The big chap with the fair hair is my cousin John. The girl in green
is Pat Wyvern. She lives near us."

"And the others? Who's the stately looking bird with the brushed-back
hair who has every appearance of being just about to address a
gathering of constituents on some important point of policy?"

"That's a fellow named Molloy. Thos. G. I met him at the fight. He's an
American."

"He looks prosperous."

"He is not so prosperous, though, as he was before the fight started. I
took thirty quid off him."

"Your uncle, from what you have told me, is pretty keen on rich men,
isn't he?"

"All over them."

"Then the thing's simple," said Ronnie Fish. "Invite this Mulcahy or
whatever his name is to Rudge, and invite me at the same time. You'll
find that in the ecstasy of getting a millionaire on the premises your
uncle will forget to make a fuss about my coming. And once I am in I
can talk this business over with him. I'll guarantee that if I can get
an uninterrupted half hour with the old boy I can easily make him see
the light."

A rush of admiration for his friend's outstanding brain held Hugo
silent for a moment. The bold simplicity of the move thrilled him.

"What it amounts to," continued Ronnie Fish, "is that your uncle is
endeavouring to do you out of a vast fortune. I tell you, the Hot Spot
is going to be a gold mine. To all practical intents and purposes he is
just as good as trying to take thousands of pounds out of your pocket.
I shall point this out to him, and I shall be surprised if I can't put
the thing through. When would you like me to come down?"

"Ronnie," said Hugo, "this is absolute genius." He hesitated. He
had no wish to discourage his friend, but he desired to be fair and
above-board. "There's just one thing. Would you have any objection to
performing at the village concert?"

"I should enjoy it."

"They're sure to rope you in. I thought you and I might do the Quarrel
Scene from _Julius Cæsar_ again."

"Excellent."

"And this time," said Hugo generously, "you can be Brutus."

"No, no," said Ronnie, moved.

"Yes, yes."

"Very well. Then fix things up with this American bloke, and leave the
rest to me. Shall I like your uncle?"

"No," said Hugo confidently.

"Ah well," said Mr. Fish equably, "I don't for a moment suppose he'll
like me."


                                  IV

The respite afforded to their patrons' ear drums by the sudden
cessation of activity on the part of the Buddies proved of brief
duration. Men like these ex-collegians, who have really got the
saxophone virus into their systems, seldom have long lucid intervals
between the attacks. Very soon they were at it again, and Mr. Molloy,
rising, led Pat gallantly out onto the floor. His daughter, following
them with a bright eye as she busied herself with a lip stick, laughed
amusedly.

"She little knows!"

John, like Pat a short while before, had fallen into a train of
thought. From this he now woke with a start to the realization that he
was alone with this girl and presumably expected by her to make some
effort at being entertaining.

"I beg your pardon?" he said.

Even had he been less preoccupied, he would have found small pleasure
in this tête-à-tête. Miss Molloy--her father addressed her as
Dolly--belonged to the type of girl in whose society a diffident man
is seldom completely at ease. There hung about her like an aura a sort
of hard glitter. Her challenging eyes were of a bright hazel--beautiful
but intimidating. She looked supremely sure of herself.

"I was saying," she explained, "that your Girl Friend little knows what
she has taken on, going out to step with Soapy."

"Soapy?"

It seemed to John that his companion had momentarily the appearance of
being a little confused.

"My father, I mean," she said quickly. "I call him Soapy."

"Oh?" said John. He supposed the practice of calling a father by a
nickname in preference to the more old-fashioned style of address was
the latest fad of the Modern Girl.

"Soapy," said Miss Molloy, developing her theme, "is full of Sex
Appeal, but he has two left feet." She emitted another little gurgle of
laughter. "There! Would you just look at him now!"

John was sorry to appear dull, but, eyeing Mr. Molloy as requested, he
could not see that he was doing anything wrong. On the contrary, for
one past his first youth, the man seemed to him enviably efficient.

"I'm afraid I don't know anything about dancing," he said
apologetically.

"At that, you're ahead of Soapy. He doesn't even suspect anything.
Whenever I get into the ring with him and come out alive I reckon I've
broke even. It isn't so much his dancing on my feet that I mind--it's
the way he jumps on and off that slays me. Don't you ever hoof?"

"Oh, yes. Sometimes. A little."

"Well, come and do your stuff, then. I can't sit still while they're
playing that thing."

John rose reluctantly. Their brief conversation had made it clear to
him that in the matter of dancing this was a girl of high ideals, and
he feared he was about to disappoint her. If she regarded with derision
a quite adequate performer like Mr. Molloy, she was obviously no
partner for himself. But there was no means of avoiding the ordeal. He
backed her out into mid-stream, hoping for the best.

Providence was in a kindly mood. By now the floor had become so
congested that skill was at a discount. Even the sallow youths with
the marcelled hair and the india-rubber legs were finding little scope
to do anything but shuffle. This suited John's individual style. He,
too, shuffled: and, playing for safety, found that he was getting along
better than he could have expected. His tension relaxed, and he became
conversational.

"Do you often come to this place?" he asked, resting his partner
against the slim back of one of the marcelled-hair brigade who, like
himself, had been held up in the traffic block.

"I've never been here before. And it'll be a long time before I come
again. A more gosh-awful aggregation of yells for help, than this gang
of whippets," said Miss Molloy, surveying the company with a critical
eye, "I've never seen. Look at that dame with the eyeglass."

"Rather weird," agreed John.

"A cry for succour," said Miss Molloy severely. "And why, when you can
buy insecticide at any drug store, people let these boys with the shiny
hair go around loose beats me."

John began to warm to this girl. At first, he had feared that he and
she could have little in common. But this remark told him that on
certain subjects, at any rate, they saw eye to eye. He, too, had felt
an idle wonder that somebody did not do something about these youths.

The Buddies had stopped playing: and John, glowing with the strange
new spirit of confidence which had come to him, clapped loudly for an
encore.

But the Buddies were not responsive. Hitherto, a mere tapping of the
palms had been enough to urge them to renewed epileptic spasms; but now
an odd lethargy seemed to be upon them, as if they had been taking some
kind of treatment for their complaint. They were sitting, instruments
in hand, gazing in a spellbound manner at a square-jawed person in
ill-fitting dress clothes who had appeared at the side of Mr. Baermann.
And the next moment, there shattered the stillness a sudden voice that
breathed Vine Street in every syllable.

"Ladies and gentlemen," boomed the voice, proceeding, as nearly as John
could ascertain, from close to the main entrance, "will you kindly take
your seats."

"Pinched!" breathed Miss Molloy in his ear. "Couldn't you have betted
on it!"

Her diagnosis was plainly correct. In response to the request, most of
those on the floor had returned to their tables, moving with the dull
resignation of people to whom this sort of thing has happened before:
and, enjoying now a wider range of vision, John was able to see that
the room had become magically filled with replicas of the sturdy figure
standing beside Mr. Baermann. They were moving about among the tables,
examining with an offensive interest the bottles that stood thereon and
jotting down epigrams on the subject in little notebooks. Time flies
on swift wings in a haunt of pleasure like the Mustard Spoon, and it
was evident that the management, having forgotten to look at its watch,
had committed the amiable error of serving alcoholic refreshments after
prohibited hours.

"I might have known," said Miss Molloy querulously, "that something of
the sort was bound to break loose in a dump like this."

John, like all dwellers in the country as opposed to the wicked
inhabitants of cities, was a law-abiding man. Left to himself, he would
have followed the crowd and made for his table, there to give his name
and address in the sheepish undertone customary on these occasions. But
he was not left to himself. A moment later it had become plain that the
dashing exterior of Miss Molloy was a true index to the soul within.
She grasped his arm and pulled him commandingly.

"Snap into it!" said Miss Molloy.

The "it" into which she desired him to snap was apparently a small
door that led to the club's service quarters. It was the one strategic
point not yet guarded by a stocky figure with large feet and an eye
like a gimlet. To it his companion went like a homing rabbit, dragging
him with her. They passed through; and John, with a resourcefulness of
which he was surprised to find himself capable, turned the key in the
lock.

"Smooth!" said Miss Molloy approvingly. "Nice work! That'll hold them
for a while."

It did. From the other side of the door there proceeded a confused
shouting, and somebody twisted the handle with a good deal of
petulance, but the Law had apparently forgotten to bring its axe with
it to-night, and nothing further occurred. They made their way down a
stuffy passage, came presently to a second door, and, passing through
this, found themselves in a backyard, fragrant with the scent of old
cabbage stalks and dish water.

Miss Molloy listened. John listened. They could hear nothing but a
distant squealing and tooting of horns, which, though it sounded like
something out of the repertoire of the Collegiate Buddies, was in
reality the noise of the traffic in Regent Street.

"All quiet along the Potomac," said Miss Molloy with satisfaction.
"Now," she added briskly, "if you'll just fetch one of those ash cans
and put it alongside that wall and give me a leg-up and help me round
that chimney and across that roof and down into the next yard and over
another wall or two, I think everything will be more or less jake."


                                   V

John sat in the lobby of the Lincoln Hotel in Curzon Street. A lifetime
of activity and dizzy hustle had passed, but it had all been crammed
into just under twenty minutes, and, after seeing his fair companion
off in a taxicab, he had made his way to the Lincoln, to ascertain from
a sleepy night porter that Miss Wyvern had not yet returned. He was now
awaiting her coming.

She came some little while later, escorted by Hugo. It was a fair
summer night, warm and still, but with her arrival a keen east wind
seemed to pervade the lobby. Pat was looking pale and proud, and Hugo's
usually effervescent demeanour had become toned down to a sort of
mellow sadness. He had the appearance of a man who has recently been
properly ticked off by a woman for Taking Me to Places Like That.

"Oh, hullo, John," he murmured in a low, bedside voice. He brightened
a little, as a man will who, after a bad quarter of an hour with an
emotional girl, sees somebody who may possibly furnish an alternative
target for her wrath. "Where did you get to? Left early to avoid the
rush?"

"It was this way ..." began John. But Pat had turned to the desk, and
was asking the porter for her key. If a female martyr in the rougher
days of the Roman Empire had had occasion to ask for a key, she would
have done it in just the voice which Pat employed. It was not a loud
voice, nor an angry one,--just the crushed, tortured voice of a girl
who has lost her faith in the essential goodness of humanity.

"You see ..." said John.

"Are there any letters for me?" asked Pat.

"No, no letters," said the night porter; and the unhappy girl gave a
little sigh, as if that was just what might be expected in a world
where men who had known you all your life took you to Places which
they ought to have Seen from the start were just Drinking-Hells, while
other men, who also had known you all your life, and, what was more,
professed to love you, skipped through doors in the company of flashy
women and left you to be treated by the police as if you were a common
criminal.

"What happened," said John, "was this...."

"Good night," said Pat.

She followed the porter to the lift, and Hugo, producing a
handkerchief, dabbed it lightly over his forehead.

"Dirty weather, shipmate!" said Hugo. "A very deep depression off the
coast of Iceland, laddie."

He placed a restraining hand on John's arm, as the latter made a
movement to follow the Snow Queen.

"No good, John," he said gravely. "No good, old man, not the slightest.
Don't waste your time trying to explain to-night. Hell hath no fury
like a woman scorned, and not many like a girl who's just had to give
her name and address in a raided night club to a plain-clothes cop who
asked her to repeat it twice and then didn't seem to believe her."

"But I want to tell her why...."

"Never tell them why. It's no use. Let us talk of pleasanter things.
John, I have brought off the coup of a lifetime. Not that it was my
idea. It was Ronnie Fish who suggested it. There's a fellow with a
brain, John. There's a lad who busts the seams of any hat that isn't a
number eight."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about this amazingly intelligent idea of old Ronnie's.
It's absolutely necessary that by some means Uncle Lester shall be
persuaded to cough up five hundred quid of my capital to enable me to
go into a venture second in solidity only to the Mint. The one person
who can talk him into it is Ronnie. So Ronnie's coming to Rudge."

"Oh?" said John, uninterested.

"And to prevent Uncle Lester making a fuss about this, I've invited old
man Molloy and daughter to come and visit us as well. That was Ronnie's
big idea. Thos. is rolling in money, and, once Uncle Lester learns
that, he won't kick about Ronnie being there. He loves having rich men
around. He likes to nuzzle them."

"Do you mean," cried John, "that that girl is coming to stay at Rudge?"

He was appalled. Limpidly clear though his conscience was, he was able
to see that his rather spectacular association with Miss Dolly Molloy
had displeased Pat, and the last thing he wished for was to be placed
in a position which was virtually tantamount to hobnobbing with the
girl. If she came to stay at Rudge, Pat might think.... What might not
Pat think?

He became aware that Hugo was speaking to him in a quiet, brotherly
voice.

"How did all that come out, John?"

"All what?"

"About Pat. Did she tell you that I paved the way?"

"She did! And look here...."

"All right, old man," said Hugo, raising a deprecatory hand. "That's
absolutely all right. I don't want any thanks. You'd have done the same
for me. Well, what has happened? Everything pretty satisfactory?"

"Satisfactory!"

"Don't tell me she turned you down?"

"If you really want to know, yes, she did."

Hugo sighed.

"I feared as much. There was something about her manner when I was
paving the way that I didn't quite like. Cold. Not responsive. A
bit glassy-eyed. What an amazing thing it is," said Hugo, tapping a
philosophical vein, "that in spite of all the ways there are of saying
Yes, a girl on an occasion like this nearly always says No. An American
statistician has estimated that, omitting substitutes like 'All right,'
'You bet,' 'O.K.,' and nasal expressions like 'Uh-huh,' the English
language provides nearly fifty different methods of replying in the
affirmative, including Yeah, Yeth, Yum, Yo, Yaw, Chess, Chass, Chuss,
Yip, Yep, Yop, Yup, Yurp...."

"Stop it!" cried John forcefully.

Hugo patted him affectionately on the shoulder.

"All right, John. All right, old man. I quite understand. You're upset.
A little on edge, yes? Of course you are. But listen, John, I want to
talk to you very seriously for a moment, in a broad-minded spirit of
cousinly good will. If I were you, laddie, I would take myself firmly
in hand at this juncture. You must see for yourself by now that you're
simply wasting your time fooling about after dear old Pat. A sweet
girl, I grant you--one of the best: but if she won't have you she
won't, and that's that. Isn't it or is it? Take my tip and wash the
whole thing out and start looking round for someone else. Now, there's
Miss Molloy, for instance. Pretty. Pots of money. If I were you, while
she's at Rudge, I'd have a decided pop at her. You see, you're one of
those fellows that Nature intended for a married man right from the
start. You're a confirmed settler-down, the sort of chap that likes
to roll the garden lawn and then put on his slippers and light a pipe
and sit side by side with the little woman, sharing a twin set of head
phones. Pull up your socks, John, and have a dash at this Molloy girl.
You'd be on velvet with a rich wife."

At several points during this harangue John had endeavoured to speak,
and he was just about to do so now, when there occurred that which
rendered speech impossible. From immediately behind them, as they stood
facing the door, a voice spoke.

"I want my bag, Hugo."

It was Pat. She was standing within a yard of them. Her face was still
that of a martyr, but now she seemed to suggest by her expression a
martyr whose tormentors have suddenly thought up something new.

"You've got my bag," she said.

"Oh, ah," said Hugo.

He handed over the beaded trifle, and she took it with a cold
aloofness. There was a pause.

"Well, good night," said Hugo.

"Good night," said Pat.

"Good night," said John.

"Good night," said Pat.

She turned away, and the lift bore her aloft. Its machinery badly
needed a drop of oil, and it emitted, as it went, a low wailing sound
that seemed to John like a commentary on the whole situation.


                                  VI

Some half a mile from Curzon Street, on the fringe of the Soho
district, there stands a smaller and humbler hotel named the Belvidere.
In a bedroom on the second floor of this, at about the moment when Pat
and Hugo had entered the lobby of the Lincoln, Dolly Molloy sat before
a mirror, cold-creaming her attractive face. She was interrupted in
this task by the arrival of the senatorial Thomas G.

"Hello, sweetie-pie," said Miss Molloy. "There you are."

"Yes," replied Mr. Molloy. "Here I am."

Although his demeanour lacked the high tragedy which had made strong
men quail in the presence of Pat Wyvern, this man was plainly ruffled.
His fine features were overcast and his frank gray eyes looked sombre.

"Gee! If there's one thing in this world I hate," he said, "it's having
to talk to policemen."

"What happened?"

"Oh, I gave my name and address. _A_ name and address, that is to say.
But I haven't got over yet the jar it gave me seeing so many cops all
gathered together in a small room. And that's not all," went on Mr.
Molloy, ventilating another grievance. "Why did you make me tell those
folks you were my daughter?"

"Well, sweetie, it sort of cramps my style, having people know we're
married."

"What do you mean, cramps your style?"

"Oh, just cramps my style."

"But, darn it," complained Mr. Molloy, going to the heart of the
matter, "it makes me out so old, folks thinking I'm your father." The
rather pronounced gap in years between himself and his young bride was
a subject on which Soapy Molloy was always inclined to be sensitive.
"I'm only forty-two."

"And you don't seem that, not till you look at you close," said Dolly
with womanly tact. "The whole thing is, sweetie, being so dignified,
you can call yourself anybody's father and get away with it."

Mr. Molloy, somewhat soothed, examined himself, not without approval,
in the mirror.

"I do look dignified," he admitted.

"Like a professor or something."

"That isn't a bald spot coming there, is it?"

"Sure it's not. It's just the way the light falls."

Mr. Molloy resumed his examination with growing content.

"Yes," he said complacently, "that's a face which for business purposes
is a face. I may not be the World's Sweetheart, but nobody can say I
haven't got a map that inspires confidence. I suppose I've sold more
bum oil stock to suckers with it than anyone in the profession. And
that reminds me, honey, what do you think?"

"What?" asked Mrs. Molloy, removing cream with a towel.

"We're sitting in the biggest kind of luck. You know how I've been
wanting all this time to get hold of a really good prospect--some guy
with money to spend who might be interested in a little oil deal?
Well, that Carmody fellow we met to-night has invited us to go and
visit at his country home."

"You don't say!"

"I do say!"

"Well, isn't that the greatest thing. Is he rich?"

"He's got an uncle that must be, or he couldn't be living in a place
like he was telling me. It's one of those stately homes of England you
read about."

Mrs. Molloy mused. The soft smile on her face showed that her day
dreams were pleasant ones.

"I'll have to get me some new frocks ... and hats ... and shoes ... and
stockings ... and ..."

"Now, now, now!" said her husband, with that anxious alarm which
husbands exhibit on these occasions. "Be yourself, baby! You aren't
going to stay at Buckingham Palace."

"But a country-house party with swell people...."

"It isn't a country-house party. There's only the uncle besides those
two boys we met to-night. But I'll tell you what. If I can plant a good
block of those Silver River shares on the old man, you can go shopping
all you want."

"Oh, Soapy! Do you think you can?"

"Do I think I can?" echoed Mr. Molloy scornfully. "I don't say I've
ever sold Central Park or Brooklyn Bridge to anybody, but if I can't
get rid of a parcel of home-made oil stock to a guy that lives in the
country I'm losing my grip and ought to retire. Sure, I'll sell him
those Silver Rivers, honey. These fellows that own these big estates in
England are only glorified farmers when you come right down to it, and
a farmer will buy anything you offer him, just so long as it's nicely
engraved and shines when you slant the light on it."

"But, Soapy...."

"Now what?"

"I've been thinking. Listen, Soapy. A home like this one where we're
going is sure to have all sorts of things in it, isn't it? Pictures, I
mean, and silver and antiques and all like that. Well, why can't we,
once we're in the place, get away with them and make a nice clean-up?"

Mr. Molloy, though conceding that this was the right spirit, was
obliged to discourage his wife's pretty enthusiasm.

"Where could you sell that sort of stuff?"

"Anywhere, once you got it over to the other side. New York's full of
rich millionaires who'll buy anything and ask no questions, just so
long as it's antiques."

Mr. Molloy shook his head.

"Too dangerous, baby. If all that stuff left the house same time as we
did, we'd have the bulls after us in ten minutes. Besides, it's not in
my line. I've got my line, and I like to stick to it. Nobody ever got
anywhere in the long run by going outside of his line."

"Maybe you're right."

"Sure I'm right. A nice conservative business, that's what I aim at."

"But suppose when we get to this joint it looks dead easy?"

"Ah! Well then, I'm not saying. All I'm against is risks. If
something's handed to you on a plate, naturally no one wouldn't ever
want to let it get past them."

And with this eminently sound commercial maxim Mr. Molloy reached for
his pyjamas and prepared for bed. Something attempted, something done,
had earned, he felt, a night's repose.




                               CHAPTER V


                                   I

Some years before the date of the events narrated in this story, at
the time when there was all that trouble between the aristocratic
householders of Riverside Row and the humbler dwellers in Budd Street
(arising, if you remember, from the practice of the latter of washing
their more intimate articles of underclothing and hanging them to dry
in back gardens into which their exclusive neighbours were compelled to
gaze every time they looked out of windows), the vicar of the parish,
the Rev. Alistair Pond-Pond, always a happy phrase-maker, wound up his
address at the annual village sports of Rudge with an impressive appeal
to the good feeling of those concerned.

"We must not," said the Reverend Alistair, "consider ourselves as
belonging to this section of Rudge-in-the-Vale or to that section of
Rudge-in-the-Vale. Let us get together. Let us recollect that we are
all fellow-members of one united community. Rudge must be looked on as
a whole. And what a whole it is!"

With the concluding words of this peroration Pat Wyvern, by the time
she had been home a little under a week, found herself in hearty
agreement. Walking with her father along High Street on the sixth
morning, she had to confess herself disappointed with Rudge.

There are times in everyone's experience when Life, after running
merrily for a while through pleasant places, seems suddenly to strike
a dull and depressing patch of road: and this was what was happening
now to Pat. The sense, which had come to her so strongly in the lobby
of the Lincoln Hotel in Curzon Street, of being in a world unworthy
of her--a world cold and unsympathetic and full of an inferior grade
of human being, had deepened. Her home-coming, she had now definitely
decided, was not a success.

Elderly men with a grievance are seldom entertaining companions for
the young, and five days of the undiluted society of Colonel Wyvern
had left Pat with the feeling that, much as she loved her father, she
wished he would sometimes change the subject of his conversation. Had
she been present in person she could not have had a fuller grasp of the
facts of that dynamite outrage than she now possessed.

But this was not all. After Mr. Carmody's thug-like behaviour on that
fatal day, she was given to understand, the Hall and its grounds were
as much forbidden territory to her as the piazza of the townhouse of
the Capulets would have been to a young Montague. And, though, being a
modern girl, she did not as a rule respond with any great alacrity to
parental mandates, she had her share of clan loyalty and realized that
she must conform to the rules of the game.

Accordingly she had not been within half a mile of the Hall since her
arrival, and, having been accustomed for fourteen years to treat the
place and its grounds as her private property, found Rudge, with a
deadline drawn across the boundaries of Mr. Carmody's park, a poor sort
of place. Unlovable character though Mr. Carmody was in many respects,
she had always been fond of him, and she missed seeing him. She also
missed seeing Hugo. And, as for John, not seeing him was the heaviest
blow of all.

From the days of her childhood, John had always been her stand-by.
Men might come and men might go, but John went on for ever. He had
never been too old, like Mr. Carmody, or too lazy, like Hugo, to give
her all the time and attention she required, and she did think that,
even though there was this absurd feud going on, he might have had
the enterprise to make an opportunity of meeting her. As day followed
day her resentment grew, until now she had reached the stage when she
was telling herself that this was simply what from a knowledge of
his character she might have expected. John--she had to face it--was
a jellyfish. And if a man is a jellyfish, he will behave like a
jellyfish, and it is at times of crisis that his jellyfishiness will be
most noticeable.

It was conscience that had brought Pat to the High Street this morning.
Her father had welcomed her with such a pathetic eagerness, and had
been so plainly pleased to see her back that she was ashamed of herself
for not feeling happier. And it was in a spirit of remorse that now,
though she would have preferred to stay in the garden with a book, she
had come with him to watch him buy another bottle of Brophy's Paramount
Elixir from Chas. Bywater, Chemist.

Brophy, it should be mentioned, had proved a sensational success. His
Elixir was making the local gnats feel perfect fools. They would bite
Colonel Wyvern on the face and stand back, all ready to laugh, and he
would just smear Brophy on himself and be as good as new. It was simply
sickening, if you were a gnat; but fine, of course, if you were Colonel
Wyvern, and that just man, always ready to give praise where praise was
due, said as much to Chas. Bywater.

"That stuff," said Colonel Wyvern, "is good. I wish I'd heard of it
before. Give me another bottle."

Mr. Bywater was delighted--not merely at this rush of trade, but
because, good kindly soul, he enjoyed ameliorating the lot of others.

"I thought you would find it capital, Colonel. I get a great many
requests for it. I sold a bottle yesterday to Mr. Carmody, senior."

Colonel Wyvern's sunniness vanished as if someone had turned it off
with a tap.

"Don't talk to me about Mr. Carmody," he said gruffly.

"Quite," said Chas. Bywater.

Pat bridged a painful silence.

"Is Mr. Carmody back, then?" she asked. "I heard he was at some sort of
health place."

"Healthward Ho, miss, just outside Lowick."

"He ought to be in prison," said Colonel Wyvern.

Mr. Bywater stopped himself in the nick of time from saying "Quite,"
which would have been a deviation from his firm policy of never taking
sides between customers.

"He returned the day before yesterday, miss, and was immediately bitten
on the nose by a mosquito."

"Thank God!" said Colonel Wyvern.

"But I sold him one of the three-and-sixpenny size of the Elixir,"
said Chas. Bywater, with quiet pride, "and a single application
completely eased the pain."

Colonel Wyvern said he was sorry to hear it, and there is no doubt that
conversation would once more have become difficult had there not at
this moment made itself heard from the other side of the door a loud
and penetrating sniff.

A fatherly smile lit up Chas. Bywater's face.

"That's Mr. John's dog," he said, reaching for the cough drops.

Pat opened the door and the statement was proved correct. With a short
wooffle, partly of annoyance at having been kept waiting and partly of
happy anticipation, Emily entered, and seating herself by the counter,
gazed expectantly at the chemist.

"Hullo, Emily," said Pat.

Emily gave her a brief look in which there was no pleased recognition,
but only the annoyance of a dog interrupted during an important
conference. She then returned her gaze to Mr. Bywater.

"What do you say, doggie?" said Mr. Bywater, more paternal than ever,
poising a cough drop.

"Oh, Hell! Snap into it!" replied Emily curtly, impatient at this
foolery.

"Hear her speak for it?" said Mr. Bywater. "Almost human, that dog is."

Colonel Wyvern, whom he had addressed, did not seem to share his lively
satisfaction. He muttered to himself. He regarded Emily sourly, and his
right foot twitched a little.

"Just like a human being, isn't she, miss?" said Chas. Bywater, damped
but persevering.

"Quite," said Pat absently.

Mr. Bywater, startled by this infringement of copyright, dropped the
cough lozenge and Emily snapped it up.

Pat, still distraite, was watching the door. She was surprised to find
that her breath was coming rather quickly and that her heart had begun
to beat with more than its usual rapidity. She was amazed at herself.
Just because John Carroll would shortly appear in that doorway must
she stand fluttering, for all the world as though poor old Johnnie, an
admitted jellyfish, were something that really mattered? It was too
silly, and she tried to bully herself into composure. She failed. Her
heart, she was compelled to realize, was now simply racing.

A step sounded outside, a shadow fell on the sunlit pavement, and Dolly
Molloy walked into the shop.


                                  II

It is curious, when one reflects, to think how many different
impressions a single individual can make simultaneously on a number
of his or her fellow-creatures. At the present moment it was almost
as though four separate and distinct Dolly Molloys had entered the
establishment of Chas. Bywater.

The Dolly whom Colonel Wyvern beheld was a beautiful woman with just
that hint of diablerie in her bearing which makes elderly widowers feel
that there is life in the old dog yet. Colonel Wyvern was no longer
the dashing Hussar who in the 'nineties had made his presence felt in
many a dim sitting-out place and in many a punt beneath the willows
of the Thames, but there still lingered in him a trace of the old
barrack-room fire. Drawing himself up, he automatically twirled his
moustache. To Colonel Wyvern Dolly represented Beauty.

To Chas. Bywater, with his more practical and worldly outlook, she
represented Wealth. He saw in Dolly not so much a beautiful woman
as a rich-looking woman. Although Soapy had contrived, with subtle
reasoning, to head her off from the extensive purchases which she
had contemplated making in preparation for her visit to Rudge, Dolly
undoubtedly took the eye. She was, as she would have put it herself, a
snappy dresser, and in Chas. Bywater's mind she awoke roseate visions
of large orders for face creams, imported scents and expensive bath
salts.

Emily, it was evident, regarded Mrs. Molloy as Perfection. A dog who,
as a rule, kept herself to herself and looked on the world with a cool
and rather sardonic eye, she had conceived for Dolly the moment they
met one of those capricious adorations which come occasionally to the
most hard-boiled Welsh terriers. Hastily swallowing her cough drop, she
bounded at Dolly and fawned on her.

So far, the reactions caused by the newcomer's entrance have been
unmixedly favourable. It is only when we come to Pat that we find
Disapproval rearing its ugly head.

"Disapproval," indeed, is a mild and inadequate word. "Loathing" would
be more correct. Where Colonel Wyvern beheld beauty and Mr. Bywater
opulence, Pat saw only flashiness, vulgarity, and general horribleness.
Piercing with woman's intuitive eye through an outer crust which to
vapid and irreflective males might possibly seem attractive, she saw
Dolly as a vampire and a menace--the sort of woman who goes about
the place ensnaring miserable fat-headed innocent young men who have
lived all their lives in the country and so lack the experience to see
through females of her type.

For beyond a question, felt Pat, this girl must have come to Rudge in
brazen pursuit of poor old Johnnie. The fact that she took her walks
abroad accompanied by Emily showed that she was staying at the Hall;
and what reason could she have had for getting herself invited to the
Hall if not that she wished to continue the acquaintance begun at the
Mustard Spoon? This, then, was the explanation of John's failure to
come and pass the time of day with an old friend. What she had assumed
to be jellyfishiness was in reality base treachery. Like Emily, whom,
slavering over Mrs. Molloy's shoes, she could gladly have kicked, he
had been hypnotized by this woman's specious glamour and had forsaken
old allegiances.

Pat, eyeing Dolly coldly, was filled with a sisterly desire to save
John from one who could never make him happy.

Dolly was all friendliness.

"Why, hello," she said, removing a shapely foot from Emily's mouth, "I
was wondering when I was going to run into you. I heard you lived in
these parts."

"Yes?" said Pat frigidly.

"I'm staying at the Hall."

"Yes?"

"What a wonderful old place it is."

"Yes."

"All those pictures and tapestries and things."

"Yes."

"Is this your father?"

"Yes. This is Miss Molloy, Father. We met in London."

"Pleased to meet you," said Dolly.

"Charmed," said Colonel Wyvern.

He gave another twirl of his moustache. Chas. Bywater hovered
beamingly. Emily, still ecstatic, continued to gnaw one of Dolly's
shoes. The whole spectacle was so utterly revolting that Pat turned to
the door.

"I'll be going along, Father," she said. "I want to buy some stamps."

"I can sell you stamps, miss," said Chas. Bywater affably.

"Thank you, I will go to the post office," said Pat. Her manner
suggested that you got a superior brand of stamps there. She walked
out. Rudge, as she looked upon it, seemed a more depressing place than
ever. Sunshine flooded the High Street. Sunshine fell on the Carmody
Arms, the Village Hall, the Plough and Chickens, the Bunch of Grapes,
the Waggoner's Rest and the Jubilee Watering Trough. But there was no
sunshine in the heart of Pat Wyvern.


                                  III

And, curiously enough, at this very moment up at the Hall the same
experience was happening to Mr. Lester Carmody. Staring out of his
study window, he gazed upon a world bathed in a golden glow: but his
heart was cold and heavy. He had just had a visit from the Rev.
Alistair Pond-Pond, and the Reverend Alistair had touched him for five
shillings.

Many men in Mr. Carmody's place would have considered that they had got
off lightly. The vicar had come seeking subscriptions to the Church
Organ Fund, the Mothers' Pleasant Sunday Evenings, the Distressed
Cottagers' Aid Society, the Stipend of the Additional Curate and
the Rudge Lads' Annual Summer Outing, and there had been moments of
mad optimism when he had hoped for as much as a ten-pound note. The
actual bag, as he totted it up while riding pensively away on his
motor-bicycle, was the above-mentioned five shillings and a promise
that the squire's nephew Hugo and his friend Mr. Fish should perform at
the village concert next week.

And even so, Mr. Carmody was looking on him as a robber. Five shillings
had gone--just like that--and every moment now he was expecting his
nephew John to walk in and increase his expenditure. For just after
breakfast John had asked if he could have a word with him later on in
the morning, and Mr. Carmody knew what that meant.

John ran the Hall's dairy farm, and he was always coming to Mr.
Carmody for money to buy exotic machinery which could not, the latter
considered, be really necessary. To Mr. Carmody a dairy farm was a
straight issue between man and cow. You backed the cow up against a
wall, secured its milk, and there you were. John always seemed to want
to make the thing so complicated and difficult, and only the fact that
he also made it pay induced his uncle ever to accede to his monstrous
demands.

Nor was this all that was poisoning a perfect summer day for Mr.
Carmody. There was in addition the soul-searing behaviour of Doctor
Alexander Twist, of Healthward Ho.

When Doctor Twist had undertaken the contract of making a new Lester
Carmody out of the old Lester Carmody, he had cannily stipulated for
cash down in advance--this to cover a course of three weeks. But at the
end of the second week Mr. Carmody, learning from his nephew Hugo that
an American millionaire was arriving at the Hall, had naturally felt
compelled to forego the final stages of the treatment and return home.
Equally naturally, he had invited Doctor Twist to refund one-third
of the fee. This the eminent physician and physical culture expert
had resolutely declined to do, and Mr. Carmody, re-reading the man's
letter, thought he had never set eyes upon a baser document.

He was shuddering at the depths of depravity which it revealed, when
the door opened and John came in. Mr. Carmody beheld him and shuddered.
John--he could tell it by his eye--was planning another bad dent in the
budget.

"Oh, Uncle Lester," said John.

"Well?" said Mr. Carmody hopelessly.

"I think we ought to have some new Alpha Separators."

"What?"

"Alpha Separators."

"Why?"

"We need them."

"Why?"

"The old ones are past their work."

"What," inquired Mr. Carmody, "is an Alpha Separator?"

John said it was an Alpha Separator.

There was a pause. John, who appeared to have something on his mind
these days, stared gloomily at the carpet. Mr. Carmody shifted in his
chair.

"Very well," he said.

"And new tractors," said John. "And we could do with a few harrows."

"Why do you want harrows?"

"For harrowing."

Even Mr. Carmody, anxious though he was to find flaws in the other's
reasoning, could see that this might well be so. Try harrowing without
harrows, and you are handicapped from the start. But why harrow at
all? That was what seemed to him superfluous and wasteful. Still, he
supposed it was unavoidable. After all, John had been carefully trained
at an agricultural college after leaving Oxford and presumably knew.

"Very well," he said.

"All right," said John.

He went out, and Mr. Carmody experienced a little relief at the thought
that he had now heard all this morning's bad news.

But dairy farmers have second thoughts. The door opened again.

"I was forgetting," said John, poking his head in.

Mr. Carmody uttered a low moan.

"We want some Thomas tap-cinders."

"Thomas what?"

"Tap-cinders."

"Thomas tap-cinders?"

"Thomas tap-cinders."

Mr. Carmody swallowed unhappily. He knew it was no use asking what
these mysterious implements were, for his nephew would simply reply
that they were Thomas tap-cinders or that they were something invented
by a Mr. Thomas for the purpose of cinder-tapping, leaving his brain in
the same addled condition in which it was at present. If John wished to
tap cinders, he supposed he must humour him.

"Very well," he said dully.

He held his breath for a few moments after the door had closed once
more, then, gathering at length that the assault on his purse was over,
expelled it in a long sigh and gave himself up to bleak meditation.

The lot of the English landed proprietor, felt Mr. Carmody, is not what
it used to be in the good old times. When the first Carmody settled in
Rudge he had found little to view with alarm. He was sitting pretty,
and he admitted it. Those were the days when churls were churls, and a
scurvy knave was quite content to work twelve hours a day, Saturdays
included, in return for a little black bread and an occasional nod of
approval from his overlord. But in this Twentieth-Century England's
peasantry has degenerated. They expect coddling. Their roofs leak, and
you have to mend them; their walls fall down and you have to build them
up; their lanes develop holes and you have to restore the surface,
and all this runs into money. The way things were shaping, felt Mr.
Carmody, in a few years a landlord would be expected to pay for the
repairs of his tenants' wireless sets.

He wandered to the window and looked out at the sunlit garden. And as
he did so there came into his range of vision the sturdy figure of his
guest, Mr. Molloy, and for the first time that morning Lester Carmody
seemed to hear, beating faintly in the distance, the wings of the blue
bird. In a world containing anybody as rich-looking as Thomas G. Molloy
there was surely still hope.

Ronald Fish's prediction that Hugo's uncle would appreciate a visit
from so solid a citizen of the United States as Mr. Molloy had been
fulfilled to the letter. Mr. Carmody had welcomed his guest with open
arms. The more rich men he could gather about him, the better he was
pleased, for he was a man of vision, and had quite a number of schemes
in his mind for which he was anxious to obtain financial support.

He decided to go and have a chat with Mr. Molloy. On a morning like
this, with all Nature smiling, an American millionaire might well
feel just in the mood to put up a few hundred thousand dollars for
something. For July had come in on golden wings, and the weather now
was the kind of weather to make a poet sing, a lover love, and a Scotch
business man subscribe largely to companies formed for the purpose of
manufacturing diamonds out of coal tar. On such a morning, felt Mr.
Carmody, anybody ought to be willing to put up any sum for anything.


                                  IV

Nature continued to smile for about another three and a quarter
minutes, and then, as far as Mr. Carmody was concerned, the sun
went out. With a genial heartiness, which gashed him like a knife,
the plutocratic Mr. Molloy declined to invest even a portion of his
millions in a new golf course, a cinema de luxe to be established in
Rudge High Street, or any of the four other schemes which his host
presented to his notice.

"No, sir," said Mr. Molloy. "I'm mighty sorry I can't meet you in any
way, but the fact is I'm all fixed up in Oil. Oil's my dish. I began in
Oil and I'll end in Oil. I wouldn't be happy outside of Oil."

"Oh?" said Mr. Carmody, regarding this Human Sardine with as little
open hostility and dislike as he could manage on the spur of the moment.

"Yes, sir," proceeded Mr. Molloy, still in lyrical vein, "I put my
first thousand into Oil and I'll put my last thousand into Oil. Oil's
been a good friend to me. There's money in Oil."

"There is money," urged Mr. Carmody, "in a cinema in Rudge High Street."

"Not the money there is in Oil."

"You are a stranger here," went on Mr. Carmody patiently, "so you have
no doubt got a mistaken idea of the potentialities of Rudge. Rudge,
you must remember, is a centre. Small though it is, never forget that
it lies just off the main road in the heart of a prosperous county.
Worcester is only seven miles away, Birmingham only eighteen. People
would come in their motors...."

"I'm not stopping them," said Mr. Molloy generously. "All I'm saying is
that my money stays in little old Oil."

"Or take Golf," said Mr. Carmody, side-stepping and attacking from
another angle. "The only good golf course in Worcestershire at present
is at Stourbridge. Worcestershire needs more golf courses. You know how
popular Golf is nowadays."

"Not so popular as Oil. Oil," said Mr. Molloy, with the air of one
making an epigram, "is Oil."

Mr. Carmody stopped himself just in time from saying what he thought of
Oil. To relieve his feelings he ground his heel into the soft gravel
of the path, and had but one regret, that Mr. Molloy's most sensitive
toe was not under it. Half turning in the process of making this bitter
gesture, he perceived that Providence, since the days of Job always
curious to know just how much a good man can bear, had sent Ronald
Overbury Fish to add to his troubles. Young Mr. Fish was sauntering up
behind his customary eleven inches of cigarette holder, his pink face
wearing that expression of good-natured superiority which, ever since
their first meeting, had afflicted Mr. Carmody sorely.

From the list of Mr. Carmody's troubles, recently tabulated, Ronnie
Fish was inadvertently omitted. Although to Lady Julia Fish, his
mother, this young gentleman, no doubt, was all the world, Lester
Carmody had found him nothing but a pain in the neck. Apart from
the hideous expense of entertaining a man who took twice of nearly
everything, and helped himself unblushingly to more port, he chafed
beneath his guest's curiously patronizing manner. He objected to being
treated as a junior--and, what was more, as a half-witted junior--by
solemn young men with pink faces.

"What's the argument?" asked Ronnie Fish, anchoring self and cigarette
holder at Mr. Carmody's side.

Mr. Molloy smiled genially.

"No argument, brother," he replied with that bluff heartiness which
Lester Carmody had come to dislike so much. "I was merely telling our
good friend and host here that the best investment under the broad blue
canopy of God's sky is Oil."

"Quite right," said Ronnie Fish. "He's perfectly correct, my dear
Carmody."

"Our good host was trying to interest me in golf courses."

"Don't touch 'em," said Mr. Fish.

"I won't," said Mr. Molloy. "Give me Oil. Oil's oil. First in war,
first in peace, first in the hearts of its countrymen, that's what Oil
is. The Universal Fuel of the Future."

"Absolutely," said Ronnie Fish. "What did Gladstone say in '88? You can
fuel some of the people all the time, and you can fuel all the people
some of the time, but you can't fuel all the people all of the time. He
was forgetting about Oil. Probably he meant coal."

"Coal?" Mr. Molloy laughed satirically. You could see he despised the
stuff. "Don't talk to me about Coal."

This was another disappointment for Mr. Carmody. Cinemas _de luxe_ and
golf courses having failed, Coal was just what he had been intending to
talk about. He suspected its presence beneath the turf of the park, and
would have been glad to verify his suspicions with the aid of someone
else's capital.

"You listen to this bird, Carmody," said Mr. Fish, patting his host on
the back. "He's talking sense. Oil's the stuff. Dig some of the savings
out of the old sock, my dear Carmody, and wade in. You'll never regret
it."

And, having delivered himself of this advice with a fatherly
kindliness which sent his host's temperature up several degrees, Ronnie
Fish strolled on.

Mr. Molloy watched him disappear with benevolent approval. He said to
Mr. Carmody that that young man had his head screwed on the right way,
and seemed not to notice a certain lack of responsive enthusiasm on the
other's part. Ronnie Fish's head was not one of Mr. Carmody's favourite
subjects at the moment.

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Molloy, resuming. "Any man that goes into Oil
is going into a good thing. Oil's all right. You don't see John D.
Rockefeller running round asking for hand-outs from his friends, do
you? No, sir! John's got his modest little competence, same as me, and
he got it, like I did, out of Oil. Say, listen, Mr. Carmody, it isn't
often I give up any of my holdings, but you've been mighty nice to me,
inviting me to your home and all, and I'd like to do something for you
in return. What do you say to a good, solid block of Silver River stock
at just the price it cost me? And let me tell you I'm offering you
something that half the big men on our side would give their eye teeth
for. Only a couple of days before I sailed I was in Charley Schwab's
office, and he said to me, 'Tom,' said Charley, 'right up till now
I've stuck to Steel and I've done well. Understand,' he said, 'I'm not
knocking Steel. But Oil's the stuff, and if you want to part with any
of that Silver River of yours, Tom,' he said, 'pass it across this desk
and write your own ticket.' That'll show you."

There is no anguish like the anguish of the man who is trying to
extract cash from a fellow human being and suddenly finds the fellow
human being trying to extract it from him. Mr. Carmody laughed a bitter
laugh.

"Do you imagine," he said, "that I have money to spare for speculative
investments?"

"Speculative?" Mr. Molloy seemed to suspect his ears of playing tricks.
"Silver River spec----?"

"By the time I've finished paying the bills for the expenses of this
infernal estate I consider myself lucky if I've got a few hundred that
I can call my own."

There was a pause.

"Is that so?" said Mr. Molloy in a thin voice.

Strictly speaking, it was not. Before succeeding to his present
position of head of the family and squire of Rudge Hall, Lester Carmody
had contrived to put away in gilt-edged securities a very nice sum
indeed, the fruit of his labours in the world of business. But it was
his whim to regard himself as a struggling pauper.

"But all this...." Mr. Molloy indicated with a wave of his hand the
smiling gardens, the rolling park and the opulent-looking trees
reflected in the waters of the moat. "Surely this means a barrel of
money?"

"Everything that comes in goes out again in expenses. There's no end to
my expenses. Farmers in England to-day sit up at night trying to think
of new claims they can make against a landlord."

There was another pause.

"That's bad," said Mr. Molloy thoughtfully. "Yes, sir, that's bad."

His commiseration was not all for Mr. Carmody. In fact, very little
of it was. Most of it was reserved for himself. It began to look, he
realized, as though in coming to this stately home of England he had
been simply wasting valuable time. It was not as if he enjoyed staying
at country houses in a purely æsthetic spirit. On the contrary, a place
like Rudge Hall afflicted his town-bred nerves. Being in it seemed to
him like living in the first-act set of an old-fashioned comic opera.
He always felt that at any moment a band of villagers and retainers
might dance out and start a drinking chorus.

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Molloy, "that must grind you a good deal."

"What must?"

It was not Mr. Carmody who had spoken, but his guest's attractive
young wife, who, having returned from the village, had come up from
the direction of the rose garden. From afar she had observed her
husband spreading his hands in broad, persuasive gestures, and from
her knowledge of him had gathered that he had embarked on one of those
high-pressure sales talks of his which did so much to keep the wolf
from the door. Then she had seen a shadow fall athwart his fine face,
and, scenting a hitch in the negotiations, had hurried up to lend
wifely assistance.

"What must grind him?" she asked.

Mr. Molloy kept nothing from his bride.

"I was offering our host here a block of those Silver River shares...."

"Oh, you aren't going to sell Silver Rivers!" cried Mrs. Molloy in
pretty concern. "Why, you've always told me they're the biggest thing
you've got."

"So they are. But...."

"Oh, well," said Dolly with a charming smile, "seeing it's Mr. Carmody.
I wouldn't mind Mr. Carmody having them."

"Nor would I," said Mr. Molloy sincerely. "But he can't afford to buy."

"What!"

"You tell her," said Mr. Molloy.

Mr. Carmody told her. He was never averse to speaking of the
unfortunate position in which the modern owner of English land found
himself.

"Well, I don't get it," said Dolly, shaking her head. "You call
yourself a poor man. How can you be poor, when that gallery place you
showed us round yesterday is jam full of pictures worth a fortune an
inch and tapestries and all those gold coins?"

"Heirlooms."

"How's that?"

"They're heirlooms," said Mr. Carmody bitterly.

He always felt bitter when he thought of the Rudge Hall heirlooms. He
looked upon them as a mean joke played on him by a gang of sardonic
ancestors.

To a man, lacking both reverence for family traditions and appreciation
of the beautiful in art, who comes into possession of an ancient house
and its contents, there must always be something painfully ironical
about heirlooms. To such a man they are simply so much potential wealth
which is being allowed to lie idle, doing no good to anybody. Mr.
Carmody had always had that feeling very strongly.

Unlike the majority of heirs, he had not been trained from boyhood
to revere the home of his ancestors, and to look forward to its
possession as a sacred trust. He had been the second son of a second
son, and his chance of ever succeeding to the property was at the
outset so remote that he had seldom given it a thought. He had gone
into business at an early age, and when, in middle life, a series of
accidents made him squire of Rudge Hall, he had brought with him to the
place a practical eye and the commercial outlook. The result was that
when he walked in the picture gallery and thought how much solid cash
he could get for this Velasquez or that Gainsborough, if only he were
given a free hand, the iron entered into Lester Carmody's soul.

"They're heirlooms," he said. "I can't sell them."

"How come? They're yours, aren't they?"

"No," said Mr. Carmody, "they belong to the estate."

On Mr. Molloy, as he listened to his host's lengthy exposition of the
laws governing heirlooms, there descended a deepening cloud of gloom.
You couldn't, it appeared, dispose of the darned things without the
consent of trustees; while even if the trustees gave their consent
they collared the money and invested it on behalf of the estate. And
Mr. Molloy, though ordinarily a man of sanguine temperament, could not
bring himself to believe that a hard-boiled bunch of trustees, most of
them probably lawyers with tight lips and suspicious minds, would ever
have the sporting spirit to take a flutter in Silver River Ordinaries.

"Hell!" said Mr. Molloy with a good deal of feeling.

Dolly linked her arm in his with a pretty gesture of affectionate
solicitude.

"Poor old Pop!" she said. "He's all broken up about this."

Mr. Carmody regarded his guest sourly.

"What's he got to worry about?" he asked with a certain resentment.

"Why, Pop was sort of hoping he'd be able to buy all this stuff," said
Dolly. "He was telling me only this morning that, if you felt like
selling, he would write you out his cheque for whatever you wanted
without thinking twice."


                                   V

Moodily scanning his wife's face during Mr. Carmody's lecture on
Heirloom Law, Mr. Molloy had observed it suddenly light up in a manner
which suggested that some pleasing thought was passing through her
always agile brain; but, presented now in words, this thought left him
decidedly cold. He could not see any sense in it.

"For the love of Pete...!" began Mr. Molloy.

His bride had promised to love, honour, and obey him, but she had never
said anything about taking any notice of him when he tried to butt in
on her moments of inspiration. She ignored the interruption.

"You see," she said, "Pop collects old junk--I mean antiques and all
like that. Over in America he's got a great big museum place full of
stuff. He's going to present it to the nation when he hands in his
dinner pail. Aren't you, Pop?"

It became apparent to Mr. Molloy that at the back of his wife's mind
there floated some idea at which, handicapped by his masculine slowness
of wit, he could not guess. It was plain to him, however, that she
expected him to do his bit, so he did it.

"You betcher," he said.

"How much would you say all that stuff in your museum was worth, Pop?"

Mr. Molloy was still groping in outer darkness, but he persevered.

"Oo," he said, "worth? Call it a million.... Two millions.... Three,
maybe."

"You see," explained Dolly, "the place is so full up, he doesn't really
know what he's got. But Pierpont Morgan offered you a million for the
pictures alone, didn't he?"

Now that figures had crept into the conversation, Mr. Molloy was
feeling more at his ease. He liked figures.

"You're thinking of Jake Shubert, honey," he said. "It was the
tapestries that Pierp. wanted. And it wasn't a million, it was seven
hundred thousand. I laughed in his face. I asked him if he thought
he was trying to buy cheese sandwiches at the delicatessen store or
something. Pierp. was sore." Mr. Molloy shook his head regretfully,
and you could see he was thinking that it was too bad that his little
joke should have caused a coolness between himself and an old friend.
"But, great guns!" he said, in defence of his attitude. "Seven hundred
thousand! Did he think I wanted carfare?"

Mr. Carmody's always rather protuberant eyes had been bulging farther
and farther out of their sockets all through this exchange of remarks,
and now they reached the farthest point possible and stayed there.
His breath was coming in little gasps, and his fingers twitched
convulsively. He was suffering the extreme of agony.

It was all very well for a man like Mr. Molloy to speak sneeringly of
$700,000. To most people--and Mr. Carmody was one of them--$700,000 is
quite a nice little sum. Mr. Molloy, if he saw $700,000 lying in the
gutter, might not think it worth his while to stoop and pick it up,
but Mr. Carmody could not imitate that proud detachment. The thought
that he had as his guest at Rudge a man who combined with a bottomless
purse a taste for antiquities and that only the imbecile laws relating
to heirlooms prevented them consummating a deal racked him from head to
foot.

"How much would you have given Mr. Carmody for all those pictures and
things he showed us yesterday?" asked Dolly, twisting the knife in the
wound.

Mr. Molloy spread his hands carelessly.

"Two hundred thousand ... three ... we wouldn't have quarrelled about
the price. But what's the use of talking? He can't sell 'em."

"Why can't he?"

"Well, how can he?"

"I'll tell you how. Fake a burglary."

"What!"

"Sure. Have the things stolen and slipped over to you without anybody
knowing, and then you hand him your cheque for two hundred thousand or
whatever it is, and you're happy and he's happy and everybody's happy.
And, what's more, I guess all this stuff is insured, isn't it? Well
then, Mr. Carmody can stick to the insurance money, and he's that much
up besides whatever he gets from you."

There was a silence. Dolly had said her say, and Mr. Molloy felt for
the moment incapable of speech. That he had not been mistaken in
supposing that his wife had a scheme at the back of her head was now
plain, but, as outlined, it took his breath away. Considered purely
as a scheme, he had not a word to say against it. It was commercially
sound and did credit to the ingenuity of one whom he had always
regarded as the slickest thinker of her sex. But it was not the sort of
scheme, he considered, which ought to have emanated from the presumably
innocent and unspotted daughter of a substantial Oil millionaire. It
was calculated, he felt, to create in their host's mind doubts and
misgivings as to the sort of people he was entertaining.

He need have no such apprehension. It was not righteous disapproval
that was holding Mr. Carmody dumb.

It has been laid down by an acute thinker that there is a subtle
connection between felony and fat. Almost all embezzlers, for instance,
says this authority, are fat men. Whether this is or is not true,
the fact remains that the sensational criminality of the suggestion
just made to him awoke no horror in Mr. Carmody's ample bosom. He
was startled, as any man might be who had this sort of idea sprung
suddenly on him in his own garden, but he was not shocked. A youth and
middle age spent on the London Stock Exchange had left Lester Carmody
singularly broad-minded. He had to a remarkable degree that specious
charity which allows a man to look indulgently on any financial
project, however fishy, provided he can see a bit in it for himself.

"It's money for nothing," urged Dolly, misinterpreting his silence.
"The stuff isn't doing any good, just lying around the way it is now.
And it isn't as if it didn't really belong to you. All what you were
saying awhile back about the law is simply mashed potatoes. The things
belong to the house, and the house belongs to you, so where's the harm
in your selling them? Who's supposed to get them after you?"

Mr. Carmody withdrew his gaze from the middle distance.

"Eh? Oh. My nephew Hugo."

"Well, you aren't worrying about him?"

Mr. Carmody was not. What he was worrying about was the practicability
of the thing. Could it, he was asking himself, be put safely through
without the risk, so distasteful to a man of sensibility, of landing
him for a lengthy term of years in a prison cell? It was on this aspect
of the matter that he now touched.

"It wouldn't be safe," he said, and few men since the world began have
ever spoken more wistfully. "We would be found out."

"Not a chance. Who would find out? Who's going to say anything? You're
not. I'm not. Pop's not."

"You bet your life Pop's not," asserted Mr. Molloy.

Mr. Carmody gazed out over the waters of the moat. His brain, quickened
by the stimulating prospect of money for nothing, detected another
doubtful point.

"Who would take the things?"

"You mean get them out of the house?"

"Exactly. Somebody would have to take them. It would be necessary to
create the appearance of an actual burglary."

"Well, there'll be an actual burglary."

"But whom could we trust in such a vital matter?"

"That's all right. Pop's got a friend, another millionaire like
himself, who would put this thing through just for the fun of it, to
oblige Pop. You could trust him."

"Who?" asked Mr. Molloy, plainly surprised that any friend of his could
be trusted.

"Chimp," said Dolly briefly.

"Oh, Chimp," said Mr. Molloy, his face clearing. "Yes, Chimp would do
it."

"Who," asked Mr. Carmody, "is Chimp?"

"A good friend of mine. You wouldn't know him."

Mr. Carmody scratched at the gravel with his toe, and for a long minute
there was silence in the garden. Mr. Molloy looked at Mrs. Molloy.
Mrs. Molloy looked at Mr. Molloy. Mr. Molloy closed his left eye for
a fractional instant, and in response Mrs. Molloy permitted her right
eyelid to quiver. But, perceiving that this was one of the occasions on
which a strong man wishes to be left alone to commune with his soul,
they forebore to break in upon his reverie with jarring speech.

"Well, I'll think it over," said Mr. Carmody.

"Atta-boy!" said Mr. Molloy.

"Sure. You take a nice walk around the block all by yourself," advised
Mrs. Molloy, "and then come back and issue a bulletin."

Mr. Carmody moved away, pondering deeply, and Mr. Molloy turned to his
wife.

"What made you think of Chimp?" he asked doubtfully.

"Well, he's the only guy on this side that we really know. We can't
pick and choose, same as if we were in New York."

Mr. Molloy eyed the moat with a thoughtful frown.

"Well, I'll tell you, honey. I'm not so darned sure that I sort of kind
of like bringing Chimp into a thing like this. You know what he is--as
slippery as an eel that's been rubbed all over with axle grease. He
might double-cross us."

"Not if we double-cross him first."

"But could we?"

"Sure we could. And, anyway, it's Chimp or no one. This isn't the sort
of affair you can just go out into the street and pick up the first
man you run into. It's a job where you've got to have somebody you've
worked with before."

"All right, baby. If you say so. You always were the brains of the
firm. If you think it's kayo, then it's all right by me and no more to
be said. Cheese it! Here's his nibs back again."

Mr. Carmody was coming up the gravel path, his air that of a man who
has made a great decision. He had evidently been following a train of
thought, for he began abruptly at the point to which it had led him.

"There's only one thing," he said. "I don't like the idea of bringing
in this friend of yours. He may be all right or he may not. You say you
can trust him, but it seems to me the fewer people who know about this
business, the better."

These were Mr. Molloy's sentiments, also. He would vastly have
preferred to keep it a nice, cosy affair among the three of them. But
it was no part of his policy to ignore obvious difficulties.

"I'd like that, too," he said. "I don't want to call in Chimp any more
than you do. But there's this thing of getting the stuff out of the
house."

"What you were saying just now," Mrs. Molloy reminded Mr. Carmody.
"It's got to look like an outside job, what I mean."

"As it's called," said Mr. Molloy hastily. "She's always reading these
detective stories," he explained. "That's where she picks up these
expressions. Outside job, ha, ha! But she's dead right, at that. You
said yourself it would be necessary to create the appearance of an
actual burglary. If we don't get Chimp, who is going to take the stuff?"

"I am."

"Eh?"

"I am," repeated Mr. Carmody stoutly. "I have been thinking the whole
matter out, and it will be perfectly simple. I shall get up very early
to-morrow morning and enter the picture gallery through the window by
means of a ladder. This will deceive the police into supposing the
theft to have been the work of a professional burglar."

Mr. Molloy was regarding him with affectionate admiration.

"I never knew you were such a hot sketch!" said Mr. Molloy. "You
certainly are one smooth citizen. Looks to me as if you'd done this
sort of thing before."

"Wear gloves," advised Mrs. Molloy.

"What she means," said Mr. Molloy, again speaking with a certain
nervous haste, "is that the first thing the bulls--as the expression
is--they always call the police bulls in these detective stories--the
first thing the police look for is fingerprints. The fellows in the
books always wear gloves."

"A very sensible precaution," said Mr. Carmody, now thoroughly in the
spirit of the thing. "I am glad you mentioned it. I shall make a point
of doing so."




                              CHAPTER VI


                                   I

The picture gallery of Rudge Hall, the receptacle of what Mrs. Soapy
Molloy had called the antiques and all like that, was situated on the
second floor of that historic edifice. To Mr. Carmody, at five-thirty
on the following morning, as he propped against the broad sill of the
window facing the moat a ladder, which he had discovered in one of the
barns, it looked much higher. He felt, as he gazed upward, like an
inexpert Jack about to mount the longest bean stalk on record.

Even as a boy, Lester Carmody had never been a great climber. While
his young companions, reckless of risk to life and limb, had swarmed
to the top of apple trees, Mr. Carmody had preferred to roam about on
solid ground, hunting in the grass for windfalls. He had always hated
heights, and this morning found him more prejudiced against them than
ever. It says much for crime as a wholesome influence in a man's life
that the lure of the nefarious job which he had undertaken should
have induced him eventually after much hesitation to set foot on the
ladder's lowest rung. Nothing but a single-minded desire to do down an
innocent insurance company could have lent him the necessary courage.

Mind having triumphed over matter to this extent, Mr. Carmody found
the going easier. Carefully refraining from looking down, he went
doggedly upward. Only the sound of his somewhat stertorous breathing
broke the hushed stillness of the summer morning. As far as the weather
was concerned, it was the start of a perfect day. But Mr. Carmody paid
no attention to the sunbeams creeping over the dewy grass, nor, when
the quiet was broken by the first piping of birds, did he pause to
listen. He had not, he considered, time for that sort of thing. He was
to have ample leisure later, but of this he was not aware.

He continued to climb, using the extreme of caution--a method which,
while it helped to ease his mind, necessarily rendered progress slow.
Before long, he was suffering from a feeling that he had been climbing
this ladder all his life. The thing seemed to have no end. He was now,
he felt, at such a distance from the earth that he wondered the air was
not more rarefied, and it appeared incredible to him that he should not
long since have reached the window sill.

Looking up at this point, a thing he had not dared to do before, he
found that steady perseverance had brought about its usual result. The
sill was only a few inches above his head, and with the realization
of this fact there came to him something that was almost a careless
jauntiness. He quickened his pace, and treading heavily on an upper
rung snapped it in two as if it had been matchwood.

When this accident occurred, he had been on a level with the sill and
just about to step warily on to it. The effect of the breaking of the
rung was to make him execute this movement at about fifteen times the
speed which he had contemplated. There was a moment in which the whole
universe seemed to dissolve, and then he was on the sill, his fingers
clinging with a passionate grip to a small piece of lead piping that
protruded from the wall and his legs swinging dizzily over the abyss.
The ladder, urged outward by his last frenzied kick, tottered for an
instant, then fell to the ground.

The events just described, though it seemed longer to the principal
actor in them, had occupied perhaps six seconds. They left Mr. Carmody
in a world that jumped and swam before his eyes, feeling as though
somebody had extracted his heart and replaced it with some kind of
lively firework. This substitute, whatever it was, appeared to be
fizzing and leaping inside his chest, and its gyrations interfered with
his breathing. For some minutes his only conscious thought was that he
felt extremely ill. Then becoming by slow degrees more composed, he was
enabled to examine the situation.

It was not a pleasant one. At first, it had been agreeable enough
simply to allow his mind to dwell on the fact that he was alive and in
one piece. But now, probing beneath this mere surface aspect of the
matter, he perceived that, taking the most conservative estimate, he
must acknowledge himself to be in a peculiarly awkward position.

The hour was about a quarter to six. He was thirty feet or so above the
ground. And, though reason told him that the window sill on which he
sat was thoroughly solid and quite capable of bearing a much heavier
weight, he could not rid himself of the feeling that at any moment it
might give way and precipitate him into the depths.

Of course, looked at in the proper spirit, his predicament had all
sorts of compensations. The medical profession is agreed that there is
nothing better for the health than the fresh air of the early morning:
and this he was in a position to drink into his lungs in unlimited
quantities. Furthermore, nobody could have been more admirably situated
than he to compile notes for one of those Country Life articles which
are so popular with the readers of daily papers.

"As I sit on my second-floor window sill and gaze about me," Mr.
Carmody ought to have been saying to himself, "I see Dame Nature busy
about her morning tasks. Everything in my peaceful garden is growing
and blowing. Here I note that most gem-like of all annuals, the African
nemesia with its brilliant ruby and turquoise tints; there the lovely
tangle of blue, purple, and red formed by the blending shades of
delphiniums, Canterbury bells, and the popular geum. Birds, too, are
chanting everywhere their morning anthems. I see the Jay (_Garrulus
Glandarius Rufitergum_), the _Corvus Monedula Spermologus_ or Jackdaw,
the Sparrow (better known, perhaps, to some of my readers as _Prunella
Modularis Occidentalis_) and many others...."

But Mr. Carmody's reflections did not run on these lines. It was
with a gloomy and hostile eye that he regarded the grass, the trees,
the flowers, the birds and dew that lay like snow upon the turf: and
of all these, it was possibly the birds that he disliked most. They
were an appalling crowd--noisy, fussy, and bustling about with a
sort of overdone heartiness that seemed to Mr. Carmody affected and
offensive. They got on his nerves and stayed there: and outstanding
among the rest in general lack of charm was a certain Dartford Warbler
(_Melizophilus Undatus Dartfordiensis_) which, instead of staying in
Dartford, where it belonged, had come all the way up to Worcestershire
simply, it appeared, for the purpose of adding to his discomfort.

This creature, flaunting a red waistcoat which might have been all
right for a frosty day in winter but on a summer morning seemed
intolerably loud and struck the jarring note of a Fair Isle sweater in
the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, arrived at five minutes past six and,
sitting down on the edge of Mr. Carmody's window sill, looked long and
earnestly at that unfortunate man with its head cocked on one side.

"This can't be real," said the Dartford Warbler in a low voice.

It then flew away and did some rough work among the insects under a
bush. At six-ten it returned.

"It is real," it soliloquized. "But if real, what is it?"

Pondering this problem, it returned to its meal, and Mr. Carmody was
left for some considerable time to his meditations. It may have been
about twenty-five minutes to seven when a voice at his elbow aroused
him once more. The Dartford Warbler was back again, its eye now a
little glazed and wearing the replete look of the bird that has done
itself well at the breakfast table.

"And why?" mused the Dartford Warbler, resuming at the point where he
had left off.

To Mr. Carmody, conscious now of a devouring hunger, the spectacle of
this bloated bird was the last straw. He struck out at it in a spasm
of irritation and nearly overbalanced. The Warbler uttered a shrill
exclamation of terror and disappeared, looking like an absconding
bookmaker. Mr. Carmody huddled back against the window, palpitating.
And more time passed.

It was at half-past seven, when he was beginning to feel that he had
not tasted food since boyhood, that there sounded from somewhere below
on his right a shrill whistling.


                                  II

He looked cautiously down. It gave him acute vertigo to do so, but he
braved this in his desire to see. Since his vigil began, he had heard
much whistling. In addition to the _Garrulus Glandarius Rufitergum_
and the _Corvus Monedula Spermologus_, he had been privileged for the
last hour or so to listen to a concert featuring such artists as the
_Dryobates Major Anglicus_, the _Sturnus Vulgaris_, the _Emberiza
Curlus_, and the _Muscicapa Striata_, or Spotted Flycatcher: and, a
moment before, he would have said that in the matter of whistling he
had had all he wanted. But this latest outburst sounded human. It
stirred in his bosom something approaching hope.

So Mr. Carmody, craning his neck, waited: and presently round the
corner of the house, a towel about his shoulders, suggesting that he
was on his way to take an early morning dip in the moat, came his
nephew Hugo.

Mr. Carmody, as this chronicle has shown, had never entertained for
Hugo quite that warmth of affection which one likes to see in an uncle
toward his nearest of kin, but at the present moment he could not have
appreciated him more if he had been a millionaire anxious to put up
capital for a new golf course in the park.

"Hoy!" he cried, much as the beleaguered garrison of Lucknow must have
done to the advance guard of the relieving Highlanders. "Hoy!"

Hugo stopped. He looked to his right, then to his left, then in front
of him, and then, turning, behind him. It was a spectacle that chilled
in an instant the new sensation of kindness which his uncle had been
feeling toward him.

"Hoy!" cried Mr. Carmody. "Hugo! Confound the boy! Hugo!"

For the first time the other looked up. Perceiving Mr. Carmody in his
eyrie, he stood rigid, gazing with opened mouth. He might have been
posing for a statue of Young Man Startled By Snake in Path While About
to Bathe.

"Great Scot!" said Hugo, looking to his uncle's prejudiced eye exactly
like the Dartford Warbler. "What on earth are you doing up there?"

Mr. Carmody would have writhed in irritation, had not prudence reminded
him that he was thirty feet too high in the air to do that sort of
thing.

"Never mind what I'm doing up here! Help me down."

"How did you get there?"

"Never mind how I got here!"

"But what," persisted Hugo insatiably, "is the big--or general--idea?"

Withheld from the relief of writhing, Mr. Carmody gritted his teeth.

"Put that ladder up," he said in a strained voice.

"Ladder?"

"Yes, ladder."

"What ladder?"

"There is a ladder on the ground."

"Where?"

"There. No, not there. There. There. Not there, I tell you. There.
There."

Hugo, following these directions, concluded a successful search.

"Right," he said. "Ladder, long, wooden, for purposes of climbing, one.
Correct as per memo. Now what?"

"Put it up."

"Right."

"And hold it very carefully."

"Esteemed order booked," said Hugo. "Carry on."

"Are you sure you are holding it carefully?"

"As in a vise."

"Well, don't let go."

Mr. Carmody, dying a considerable number of deaths in the process,
descended. He found his nephew's curiosity at close range even more
acute than it had been from a distance.

"What on earth were you doing up there?" said Hugo, starting again at
the beginning.

"Never mind."

"But what were you?"

"If you wish to know, a rung broke and the ladder slipped."

"But what were you doing on a ladder?"

"Never mind!" cried Mr. Carmody, regretting more bitterly than ever
before in his life that his late brother Eustace had not lived and died
a bachelor. "Don't keep saying What--What--What!"

"Well, why?" said Hugo, conceding the point. "Why were you climbing
ladders?"

Mr. Carmody hesitated. His native intelligence returning, he perceived
now that this was just what the great public would want to know. It was
little use urging a human talking machine like his nephew to keep quiet
and say nothing about this incident. In a couple of hours it would be
all over Rudge. He thought swiftly.

"I fancied I saw a swallow's nest under the eaves."

"Swallow's nest?"

"Swallow's nest. The nest," said Mr. Carmody between his teeth, "of a
swallow."

"Did you think swallows nested in July?"

"Why shouldn't they?"

"Well, they don't."

"I never said they did. I merely said...."

"No swallow has ever nested in July."

"I never...."

"April," said our usually well-informed correspondent.

"What?"

"April. Swallows nest in April."

"Damn all swallows!" said Mr. Carmody. And there was silence for a
moment, while Hugo directed his keen young mind to other aspects of
this strange affair.

"How long had you been up there?"

"I don't know. Hours. Since half-past five."

"Half-past five? You mean you got up at half-past five to look for
swallows' nests in July?"

"I did not get up to look for swallows' nests."

"But you said you were looking for swallows' nests."

"I did not say I was looking for swallows' nests. I merely said I
fancied I saw a swallow's nest...."

"You couldn't have done. Swallows don't nest in July.... April."

The sun was peeping over the elms. Mr. Carmody raised his clenched
fists to it.

"I did not say I saw a swallow's nest. I said I thought I saw a
swallow's nest."

"And got a ladder out and climbed up for it?"

"Yes."

"Having risen from couch at five-thirty ante meridian?"

"Will you kindly stop asking me all these questions."

Hugo regarded him thoughtfully.

"Just as you like, Uncle. Well, anything further this morning? If not,
I'll be getting along and taking my dip."


                                  III

"I say, Ronnie," said Hugo, some two hours later, meeting his friend en
route for the breakfast table. "You know my uncle?"

"What about him?"

"He's loopy."

"What?"

"Gone clean off his castors. I found him at seven o'clock this morning
sitting on a second-floor window sill. He said he'd got up at
five-thirty to look for swallows' nests."

"Bad," said Mr. Fish, shaking his head with even more than his usual
solemnity. "Second-floor window sill, did you say?"

"Second-floor window sill."

"Exactly how my aunt started," said Ronnie Fish.

"They found her sitting on the roof of the stables, playing the ukulele
in a blue dressing gown. She said she was Boadicea. And she wasn't.
That's the point, old boy," said Mr. Fish earnestly. "She wasn't. We
must get you out of this as quickly as possible, or before you know
where you are you'll find yourself being murdered in your bed. It's
this living in the country that does it. Six consecutive months in the
country is enough to sap the intellect of anyone. Looking for swallows'
nests, was he?"

"So he said. And swallows don't nest in July. They nest in April."

Mr. Fish nodded.

"That's how I always heard the story," he agreed. "The whole thing
looks very black to me, and the sooner you're safe out of this and in
London, the better."


                                  IV

At about the same moment, Mr. Carmody was in earnest conference with
Mr. Molloy.

"That man you were telling me about," said Mr. Carmody. "That friend of
yours who you said would help us."

"Chimp?"

"I believe you referred to him as Chimp. How soon could you get in
touch with him?"

"Right away, brother."

Mr. Carmody objected to being called brother, but this was no time for
being finicky.

"Send for him at once."

"Why, have you given up the idea of getting that stuff out of the house
yourself?"

"Entirely," said Mr. Carmody. He shuddered slightly. "I have been
thinking the matter over very carefully, and I feel that this is an
affair where we require the services of some third party. Where is this
friend of yours? In London?"

"No. He's right around the corner. His name's Twist. He runs a sort of
health-farm place only a few miles from here."

"God bless my soul! Healthward Ho?"

"That's the spot. Do you know it?"

"Why, I have only just returned from there."

Mr. Molloy was conscious of a feeling of almost incredulous awe. It
was the sort of feeling which would come to a man who saw miracles
happening all around him. He could hardly believe that things could
possibly run as smoothly as they appeared to be doing. He had
anticipated a certain amount of difficulty in selling Chimp Twist to
Mr. Carmody, as he phrased it to himself, and had looked forward with
not a little apprehension to a searching inquisition into Chimp Twist's
_bona fides_. And now, it seemed, Mr. Carmody knew Chimp personally and
was, no doubt, prepared to receive him without a question. Could luck
like this hold? That was the only thought that disturbed Mr. Molloy.

"Well, isn't that interesting!" he said slowly. "So you know my old
friend Twist, do you?"

"Yes," said Mr. Carmody, speaking, however, as if the acquaintanceship
were not one to which he looked back with any pleasure. "I know him
very well."

"Fine!" said Mr. Molloy. "You see, if I thought we were getting in
somebody you knew nothing about and felt you couldn't trust, it would
sort of worry me."

Mr. Carmody made no comment on this evidence of his guest's nice
feeling. He was meditating and did not hear it. What he was meditating
on was the agreeable fact that money which he had been trying so vainly
to recover from Doctor Twist would not be a dead loss after all. He
could write if off as part of the working expenses of this little
venture. He beamed happily at Mr. Molloy.

"Healthward Ho is on the telephone," he said. "Go and speak to Doctor
Twist now and ask him to come over here at once." He hesitated for a
moment, then came bravely to a decision. After all, whatever the cost
in petrol, oil, and depreciation of tires, it was for a good object.
More working expenses. "I will send my car for him," he said.

If you wish to accumulate, you must inevitably speculate, felt Mr.
Carmody.




                              CHAPTER VII


                                   I

The strange depression which had come upon Pat in the shop of Chas.
Bywater did not yield, as these gray moods generally do, to the
curative influence of time. The following morning found her as gloomy
as ever--indeed, rather gloomier, for shortly after breakfast the
_noblesse oblige_ spirit of the Wyverns had sent her on a reluctant
visit to an old retainer who lived--if you could call it that--in one
of the smaller and stuffier houses in Budd Street. Pensioned off after
cooking for the Colonel for eighteen years, this female had retired
to bed and stayed there, and there was a legend in the family, though
neither by word nor look did she ever give any indication of it, that
she enjoyed seeing Pat.

Bedridden ladies of advanced age seldom bubble over with fun and _joie
de vivre_. This one's attitude toward life seemed to have been borrowed
from her favourite light reading, the works of the Prophet Jeremiah,
and Pat, as she emerged into the sunshine after some eighty minutes of
her society, was feeling rather like Jeremiah's younger sister.

The sense of being in a world unworthy of her--a world cold and
unsympathetic and full of an inferior grade of human being, had now
become so oppressive that she was compelled to stop on her way home
and linger on the old bridge which spanned the Skirme. From the days
of her childhood this sleepy, peaceful spot had always been a haven
when things went wrong. She was gazing down into the slow-moving water
and waiting for it to exercise its old spell, when she heard her name
spoken and turned to see Hugo.

"What ho," said Hugo, pausing beside her. His manner was genial and
unconcerned. He had not met her since that embarrassing scene in the
lobby of the Hotel Lincoln, but he was a man on whom the memory of past
embarrassments sat lightly. "What do you think you're doing, young Pat?"

Pat found herself cheering up a little. She liked Hugo. The sense of
being all alone in a bleak world left her.

"Nothing in particular," she said. "Just looking at the water."

"Which in its proper place," agreed Hugo, "is admirable stuff. I've
been doing a bit of froth-blowing at the Carmody Arms. Also buying
cigarettes and other necessaries. I say, have you heard about my Uncle
Lester's brain coming unstuck? Absolutely. He's quite _non compos_.
Mad as a coot. Belfry one seething mass of bats. He's taken to climbing
ladders in the small hours after swallows' nests. However, shelving
that for the moment, I'm very glad I ran into you this morning, young
Pat. I wish to have a serious talk with you about old John."

"John?"

"John."

"What about John?"

At this moment there whirred past, bearing in its interior a weedy,
snub-nosed man with a waxed moustache, a large red automobile. Hugo,
suspending his remarks, followed it with astonished eyes.

"Good Lord!"

"What about Johnnie?"

"That was the Dex-Mayo," said Hugo. "And the gargoyle inside was that
blighter Twist from Healthward Ho. Great Scott! The car must have been
over there to fetch him."

"What's so remarkable about that?"

"What's so remarkable?" echoed Hugo, astounded. "What's remarkable
about Uncle Lester deliberately sending his car twenty miles to fetch
a man who could have come, if he had to come at all, by train at his
own expense? My dear old thing, it's revolutionary. It marks an epoch.
Do you know what I think has happened? You remember that dynamite
explosion in the park when Uncle Lester nearly got done in?"

"I don't have much chance to forget it."

"Well, what I believe has happened is that the shock he got that day
has completely changed his nature. It's a well-known thing. You hear
of such cases all the time. Ronnie Fish was telling me about one only
yesterday. There was a man he knew in London, a money lender, a fellow
who had a glass eye, and the only thing that enabled anyone to tell
which of his eyes was which was that the glass one had rather a more
human expression than the other. That's the sort of chap he was. Well,
one day he was nearly konked in a railway accident, and he came out of
hospital a different man. Slapped people on the back, patted children
on the head, tore up I.O.U.'s, and talked about its being everybody's
duty to make the world a better place. Take it from me, young Pat,
Uncle Lester's whole nature has undergone some sort of rummy change
like that. That swallow's nest business must have been a preliminary
symptom. Ronnie tells me that this money lender with the glass eye...."

Pat was not interested in glass-eyed money lenders.

"What were you saying about John?"

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going home quick, so as to be
among those present when he starts scattering the stuff. It's quite
on the cards that I may scoop that five hundred yet. Once a tightwad
starts seeing the light...."

"You were saying something about John," said Pat, falling into step
with him as he moved off. His babble irked her, making her wish that
she could put the clock back a few years. Age, they say, has its
compensations, but one of the drawbacks of becoming grown-up and
sedate is that you have to abandon the childish practice of clumping
your friends on the side of the head when they wander from the point.
However, she was not too old to pinch her companion in the fleshy part
of the arm, and she did so.

"Ouch!" said Hugo, coming out of his trance.

"What about John?"

Hugo massaged his arm tenderly. The look of a greyhound pursuing an
electric hare died out of his eyes.

"Of course, yes. John. Glad you reminded me. Have you seen John lately?"

"No. I'm not allowed to go to the Hall, and he seems too busy to come
and see me."

"It isn't so much being busy. Don't forget there's a war on. No doubt
he's afraid of bumping into the parent."

"If Johnnie's scared of Father...."

"There's no need to speak in that contemptuous tone. I am, and there
are few more intrepid men alive than Hugo Carmody. The old Colonel,
believe me, is a tough baby. If I ever see him, I shall run like a
rabbit, and my biographers may make of it what they will. You, being
his daughter and having got accustomed to his ways, probably look on
him as something quite ordinary and harmless, but even you will admit
that he's got eyebrows which must be seen to be believed."

"Oh, never mind Father's eyebrows. Go on about Johnnie."

"Right ho. Well, then, look here, young Pat," said Hugo, earnestly,
"in the interests of the aforesaid John, I want to ask you a favour. I
understand he proposed to you that night at the Mustard Spoon."

"Well?"

"And you slipped him the mitten."

"Well?"

"Oh, don't think I'm blaming you," Hugo assured her. "If you don't
want him, you don't. Nothing could be fairer than that. But what I'm
asking you to do now is to keep clear of the poor chap. If you happen
to run into him, that can't be helped, but be a sport and do your best
to avoid him. Don't unsettle him. If you come buzzing round, stirring
memories of the past and arousing thoughts of Auld Lang Syne and what
not, that'll unsettle him. It'll take his mind off his job and ...
well ... unsettle him. And, providing he isn't unsettled, I have strong
hopes that we may get old John off this season. Do I make myself
clear?"

Pat kicked viciously at an inoffensive pebble, whose only fault was
that it happened to be within reach at the moment.

"I suppose what you're trying to break to me in your rambling,
woollen-headed way is that Johnnie is mooning round that Molloy girl? I
met her just now in Bywater's, and she told me she was staying at the
Hall."

"I wouldn't call it mooning," said Hugo thoughtfully, speaking like a
man who is an expert in these matters and can appraise subtle values.
"I wouldn't say it had quite reached the mooning stage yet. But I have
hopes. You see, John is a bloke whom Nature intended for a married man.
He's a confirmed settler-down, the sort of chap who...."

"You needn't go over all that again. I had the pleasure of hearing your
views on the subject that night in the lobby of the hotel."

"Oh, you did hear?" said Hugo, unabashed. "Well, don't you think I'm
right?"

"If you mean do I approve of Johnnie marrying Miss Molloy, I certainly
do not."

"But if you don't want him...."

"It has nothing to do with my wanting him or not wanting him. I don't
like Miss Molloy."

"Why not?"

"She's flashy."

"I would have said smart."

"I wouldn't." Pat, with an effort, recovered a certain measure of calm.
Wrangling, she felt, was beneath her. As she could not hit Hugo with
the basket in which she had carried two pounds of tea, a bunch of
roses, and a seed cake to her bedridden pensioner, the best thing to do
was to preserve a ladylike composure. "Anyway, you're probably taking a
lot for granted. Probably Johnnie isn't in the least attracted by her.
Has he ever given any sign of it?"

"Sign?" Hugo considered. "It depends what you mean by sign. You know
what old John is. One of these strong, silent fellows who looks on all
occasions like a stuffed frog."

"He doesn't."

"Pardon me," said Hugo firmly. "Have you ever seen a stuffed frog?
Well, I have. I had one for years when I was a kid. And John has
exactly the same power of expressing emotion. You can't go by what he
says or the way he looks. You have to keep an eye out for much subtler
bits of evidence. Now, last night he was explaining the rules of
cricket to this girl, and answering all her questions on the subject,
and, as he didn't at any point in the proceeding punch her on the
nose, one is entitled to deduce, I consider, that he must be strongly
attracted by her. Ronnie thinks so, too. So what I'm asking you to
do...."

"Good-bye," said Pat. They had reached the gate of the little drive
that led to her house, and she turned sharply.

"Eh?"

"Good-bye."

"But just a moment," insisted Hugo. "Will you...."

At this point he stopped in mid-sentence and began to walk quickly up
the road; and Pat, puzzled to conjecture the reason for so abrupt a
departure, received illumination a moment later when she saw her father
coming down the drive. Colonel Wyvern had been dealing murderously with
snails in the shadow of a bush, and the expression on his face seemed
to indicate that he would be glad to extend the treatment to Hugo.

He gazed after that officious young man with a steely eye. The second
post had arrived a short time before, and it had included among a
number of bills and circulars a letter from his lawyer, in which the
latter regretfully gave it as his opinion that an action against Mr.
Lester Carmody in the matter of that dynamite business would not lie.
To bring such an action would, in the judgment of Colonel Wyvern's
lawyer, be a waste both of time and money.

The communication was not calculated to sweeten the Colonel's
temper, nor did the spectacle of his daughter in apparently pleasant
conversation with one of the enemy help to cheer him up.

"What are you talking about to that fellow?" he demanded. It was rare
for Colonel Wyvern to be the heavy father, but there are times when
heaviness in a father is excusable. "Where did you meet him?"

His tone disagreeably affected Pat's already harrowed nerves, but she
replied to the question equably.

"I met him on the bridge. We were talking about John."

"Well, kindly understand that I don't want you to hold any
communication whatsoever with that young man or his cousin John or his
infernal uncle or any of that Hall gang. Is that clear?"

Her father was looking at her as if she were a snail which he had just
found eating one of his lettuce leaves, but Pat still contrived with
some difficulty to preserve a pale, saintlike calm.

"Quite clear."

"Very well, then."

There was a silence.

"I've known Johnnie fourteen years," said Pat in a small voice.

"Quite long enough," grunted Colonel Wyvern.

Pat walked on into the house and up the stairs to her room. There,
having stamped on the basket and reduced it to a state where it would
never again carry seed cake to ex-cooks, she sat on her bed and stared,
dry-eyed, at her reflection in the mirror.

What with Dolly Molloy and Hugo and her father, the whole aspect of
John Carroll seemed to be changing for her. No longer was she able to
think of him as Poor Old Johnnie. He had the glamour now of something
unattainable and greatly to be desired. She looked back at a night,
some centuries ago, when a fool of a girl had refused the offer of this
superman's love, and shuddered to think what a mess of things girls can
make.

And she had no one to confide in. The only person who could have
understood and sympathized with her was Hugo's glass-eyed money lender.
He knew what it was to change one's outlook.


                                  II

Mr. Alexander (Chimp) Twist stood with his shoulders against the
mantelpiece in Mr. Carmody's study and, twirling his waxed moustache
thoughtfully, listened with an expressionless face to Soapy Molloy's
synopsis of the events which had led up to his being at the Hall
that morning. Dolly reclined in a deep armchair. Mr. Carmody was not
present, having stated that he would prefer to leave the negotiations
entirely to Mr. Molloy.

Through the open window the sounds and scents of summer poured in, but
it is unlikely that Chimp Twist was aware of them. He was a man who
believed in concentration, and his whole attention now was taken up by
the remarkable facts which his old acquaintance and partner was placing
before him.

The latter's conversation on the telephone some two hours ago had left
Chimp Twist with an open mind. He was hopeful, but cautiously hopeful.
Soapy had insisted that there was a big thing on, but he had reserved
his enthusiasm until he should learn the details. The thing, he felt,
might seem big to Soapy, but to Alexander Twist no things were big
things unless he could see in advance a substantial profit for A. Twist
in them.

Mr. Molloy, concluding his story, paused for reply. The visitor gave
his moustache a final twist, and shook his head.

"I don't get it," he said.

Mrs. Molloy straightened herself militantly in her chair. Of all
masculine defects, she liked slowness of wit least; and she had never
been a great admirer of Mr. Twist.

"You poor, nut-headed swozzie," she said with heat. "What don't you
get? It's simple enough, isn't it? What's bothering you?"

"There's a catch somewhere. Why isn't this guy Carmody able to sell the
things?"

"It's the law, you poor fish. Soapy explained all that."

"Not to me he didn't," said Chimp. "A lot of words fluttered out of
him, but they didn't explain anything to me. Do you mean to say there's
a law in this country that says a man can't sell his own property?"

"It isn't his own property." Dolly's voice was shrill with
exasperation. "The things belong in the family and have to be kept
there. Does that penetrate, or have we got to use a steam drill? Listen
here. Old George W. Ancestor starts one of these English families
going--way back in the year G.X. something. He says to himself, 'I
can't last forever, and when I go then what? My son Freddie is a good
boy, handy with the battle axe and okay at mounting his charger, but
he's like all the rest of these kids--you can't keep him away from the
hock shop as long as there's anything in the house he can raise money
on. It begins to look like the moment I'm gone my collection of old
antiques can kiss itself good-bye.' And then he gets an idea. He has a
law passed saying that Freddie can use the stuff as long as he lives
but he can't sell it. And Freddie, when his time comes, he hands the
law on to his son Archibald, and so on, down the line till you get to
this here now Carmody. The only way this Carmody can realize on all
these things is to sit in with somebody who'll pinch them and then salt
them away somewheres, so that after the cops are out of the house and
all the fuss has quieted down they can get together and do a deal."

Chimp's face cleared.

"Now I'm hep," he said. "Now I see what you're driving at. Why couldn't
Soapy have put it like that before? Well, then, what's the idea? I
sneak in and swipe the stuff. Then what?"

"You salt it away."

"At Healthward Ho?"

"No!" said Mr. Molloy.

"No!" said Mrs. Molloy.

It would have been difficult to say which spoke with the greater
emphasis, and the effect was to create a rather embarrassing silence.

"It isn't that we don't trust you, Chimpie," said Mr. Molloy, when this
silence had lasted some little time.

"Oh?" said Mr. Twist, rather distantly.

"It's simply that this bimbo Carmody naturally don't want the stuff to
go out of the house. He wants it where he can keep an eye on it."

"How are you going to pinch it without taking it out of the house?"

"That's all been fixed. I was talking to him about it this morning
after I 'phoned you. Here's the idea. You get the stuff and pack it
away in a suitcase...."

"Stuff that there's only enough of so's you can put it all in a
suitcase is a hell of a lot of use to anyone," commented Mr. Twist
disparagingly.

Dolly clutched her temples. Mr. Molloy brushed his hair back from his
forehead with a despairing gesture.

"Sweet potatoes!" moaned Dolly. "Use your bean, you poor sap, use your
bean. If you had another brain you'd just have one. A thing hasn't got
to be the size of the Singer Building to be valuable, has it? I suppose
if someone offered you a diamond you'd turn it down because it wasn't
no bigger than a hen's egg."

"Diamond?" Chimp brightened. "Are there diamonds?"

"No, there aren't. But there's pictures and things, any one of them
worth a packet. Go on, Soapy. Tell him."

Mr. Molloy smoothed his hair and addressed himself to his task once
more.

"Well, it's like this, Chimpie," he said. "You put the stuff in a
suitcase and you take it down into the hall where there's a closet
under the stairs...."

"We'll show you the closet," interjected Dolly.

"Sure we'll show you the closet," said Mr. Molloy generously. "Well,
you put the suitcase in this closet and you leave it lay there. The
idea is that later on I give old man Carmody my cheque and he hands it
over and we take it away."

"He thinks Soapy owns a museum in America," explained Dolly. "He thinks
Soapy's got all the money in the world."

"Of course, long before the time comes for giving any cheques, we'll
have got the stuff away."

Mr. Chimp digested this.

"Who's going to buy it when you do get it away?" he asked.

"Oh, gee!" said Dolly. "You know as well as I do there's dozens of
people on the other side who'll buy it."

"And how are you going to get it away? If it's in a closet in Carmody's
house and Carmody has the key...?"

"Now there," said Mr. Molloy, with a deferential glance at his wife, as
if requesting her permission to re-open a delicate subject, "the madam
and I had a kind of an argument. I wanted to wait till a chance came
along sort of natural, but Dolly's all for quick action. You know what
women are. Impetuous."

"If you'd care to know what we're going to do," said Mrs. Molloy
definitely, "we're not going to hang around waiting for any chances to
come along sort of natural. We're going to slip a couple of knock-out
drops in old man Carmody's port one night after dinner and clear out
with the stuff while...."

"Knock-out drops?" said Chimp, impressed. "Have you got any knock-out
drops?"

"Sure we've got knock-out drops. Soapy never travels without them."

"The madam always packs them in their little bottle first thing
before even my clean collars," said Mr. Molloy proudly. "So you see,
everything's all arranged, Chimpie."

"Yeah?" said Mr. Twist, "and how about me?"

"How do you mean, how about you?"

"It seems to me," pointed out Mr. Twist, eyeing his business partner in
rather an unpleasant manner with his beady little eyes, "that you're
asking me to take a pretty big chance. While you're doping the old man
I'll be twenty miles away at Healthward Ho. How am I to know you won't
go off with the stuff and leave me to whistle for my share?"

It is only occasionally that one sees a man who cannot believe his
ears, but anybody who had been in Mr. Carmody's study at this moment
would have been able to enjoy that interesting experience. A long
moment of stunned and horrified amazement passed before Mr. Molloy was
able to decide that he really had heard correctly.

"Chimpie! You don't suppose we'd double-cross you?"

"Ee-magine!" said Mrs. Molloy.

"Well, mind you don't," said Mr. Twist coldly. "But you can't say I'm
not taking a chance. And now, talking turkey for a moment, how do we
share?"

"Equal shares, of course, Chimpie."

"You mean half for me and half for you and Dolly?"

Mr. Molloy winced as if the mere suggestion had touched an exposed
nerve.

"No, no, no, Chimpie! You get a third, I get a third, and the madam
gets a third."

"Not on your life!"

"What!"

"Not on your life. What do you think I am?"

"I don't know," said Mrs. Molloy acidly. "But, whatever it is, you're
the only one of it."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, that is so."

"Now, now, now," said Mr. Molloy, intervening. "Let's not get personal.
I can't figure this thing out, Chimpie. I can't see where your kick
comes in. You surely aren't suggesting that you should ought to have as
much as I and the wife put together?"

"No, I'm not. I'm suggesting I ought to have more."

"What!"

"Sixty-forty's my terms."

A feverish cry rang through the room, a cry that came straight from a
suffering heart. The temperamental Mrs. Molloy was very near the point
past which a sensitive woman cannot be pushed.

"Every time we get together on one of these jobs," she said, with deep
emotion, "we always have this same fuss about the divvying up. Just
when everything looks nice and settled you start this thing of trying
to hand I and Soapy the nub end of the deal. What's the matter with you
that you always want the earth? Be human, why can't you, you poor lump
of Camembert."

"I'm human all right."

"You've got to prove it to me."

"What makes you say I'm not human?"

"Well, look in the glass and see for yourself," said Mrs. Molloy
offensively.

The pacific Mr. Molloy felt it time to call the meeting to order once
more.

"Now, now, now! All this isn't getting us anywheres. Let's stick to
business. Where do you get that sixty-forty stuff, Chimp?"

"I'll tell you where I get it. I'm going into this thing as a favour,
aren't I? There's no need for me to sit in at this game at all, is
there? I've got a good, flourishing, respectable business of my own,
haven't I? A business that's on the level. Well, then."

Dolly sniffed. Her husband's soothing intervention had failed signally
to diminish her animosity.

"I don't know what your idea was in starting that Healthward Ho
joint," she said, "but I'll bet my diamond sunburst it isn't on the
level."

"Certainly it's on the level. A man with brains can always make a good
living without descending to anything low and crooked. That's why I say
that if I go into this thing it will simply be because I want to do a
favour to two old friends."

"Old what?"

"Friends was what I said," repeated Mr. Twist. "If you don't like my
terms, say so and we'll call the deal off. It'll be all right by me.
I'll simply get along back to Healthward Ho and go on running my good,
flourishing, respectable business. Come to think of it, I'm not any too
solid on this thing, anyway. I was walking in my garden this morning
and a magpie come up to me as close as that."

Mrs. Molloy expressed the view that this was tough on the magpie, but
wanted to know what the bird's misfortune in finding itself so close to
Mr. Twist that it could not avoid taking a good, square look at him had
to do with the case.

"Well, I'm superstitious, same as everyone else. I saw the new moon
through the glass, what's more."

"Oh, stop stringing the beads and talk sense," said Dolly wearily.

"I'm talking sense all right. Sixty per cent. or I don't come in. You
wouldn't have asked me to come in if you could have done without me.
Think I don't know that? Sixty's moderate. I'm doing all the hard work,
aren't I?"

"Hard work?" Dolly laughed bitterly. "Where do you get the idea it's
going to be hard work? Everybody'll be out of the house on the night
of this concert thing they're having down in the village, there'll be
a window left open, and you'll just walk in and pack up the stuff. If
that's hard, what's easy? We're simply handing you slathers of money
for practically doing nothing."

"Sixty," said Mr. Twist. "And that's my last word."

"But, Chimpie ..." pleaded Mr. Molloy.

"Sixty."

"Have a heart!"

"Sixty."

"It isn't as though ..."

"Sixty."

Dolly threw up her hands despairingly.

"Oh, give it him," she said. "He won't be happy if you don't. If a
guy's middle name is Shylock, where's the use wasting time trying to do
anything about it?"


                                  III

Mrs. Molloy's prediction that on the night of Rudge's annual dramatic
and musical entertainment the Hall would be completely emptied of its
occupants was not, as it happened, literally fulfilled. A wanderer
through the stable yard at about the hour of ten would have perceived a
light in an upper window: and had he taken the trouble to get a ladder
and climb up and look in would have beheld John Carroll seated at his
table, busy with a pile of accounts.

In an age so notoriously avid of pleasure as the one in which we live
it is rare to find a young man of such sterling character that he
voluntarily absents himself from a village concert in order to sit at
home and work: and, contemplating John, one feels quite a glow. It was
not as if he had been unaware of what he was missing. The vicar, he
knew, was to open the proceedings with a short address: the choir would
sing old English glees: the Misses Vivien and Alice Pond-Pond were down
on the programme for refined coon songs: and, in addition to other
items too numerous and fascinating to mention, Hugo Carmody and his
friend Mr. Fish would positively appear in person and render that noble
example of Shakespeare's genius, the Quarrel Scene from _Julius Cæsar_.
Yet John Carroll sat in his room, working. England's future cannot be
so dubious as the pessimists would have us believe while her younger
generation is made of stuff like this.

John was finding in his work these days a good deal of consolation.
There is probably no better corrective of the pangs of hopeless love
than real, steady application to the prosaic details of an estate. The
heart finds it difficult to ache its hardest while the mind is busy
with such items as Sixty-one pounds, eight shillings and fivepence, due
to Messrs. Truby and Gaunt for Fixing Gas Engine, or the claim of the
Country Gentlemen's Association for eight pounds eight and fourpence
for seeds. Add drains, manure, and feed of pigs, and you find yourself
immediately in an atmosphere where Romeo himself would have let his
mind wander. John, as he worked, was conscious of a distinct easing of
the strain which had been on him since his return to the Hall. And if
at intervals he allowed his eyes to stray to the photograph of Pat on
the mantelpiece, that was the sort of thing that might happen to any
young man, and could not be helped.

It was seldom that visitors penetrated to this room of his--indeed, he
had chosen to live above the stables in preference to inside the house
for this very reason, and on Rudge's big night he had looked forward to
an unbroken solitude. He was surprised, therefore, as he checked the
account of the Messrs. Vanderschoot & Son for bulbs, to hear footsteps
on the stairs. A moment later, the door had opened and Hugo walked in.

John's first impulse, as always when his cousin paid him a visit, was
to tell him to get out. People who, when they saw Hugo, immediately
told him to get out generally had the comfortable feeling that they
were doing the right and sensible thing. But to-night there was in his
demeanour something so crushed and forlorn that John had not the heart
to pursue this admirable policy.

"Hullo," he said. "I thought you were down at the concert."

Hugo uttered a short, bitter laugh, and, sinking into a chair, stared
bleakly before him. His eyelids, like those of the Mona Lisa, were a
little weary. He looked like the hero of a Russian novel debating the
advisability of murdering a few near relations before hanging himself
in the barn.

"I was," he said. "Oh yes, I was down at the concert all right."

"Have you done your bit already?"

"I have. They put Ronnie and me on just after the Vicar's Short
Address."

"Wanted to get the worst over quick, eh?"

Hugo raised a protesting hand. There was infinite sadness in the
gesture.

"Don't mock, John. Don't jeer. Don't jibe and scoff. I'm a broken man."

"Only cracked, I should have said."

Hugo was not attuned to cousinly badinage. He frowned austerely.

"Less back-chat," he begged. "I came here for sympathy. And a drink.
Have you got anything to drink?"

"There's some whisky in that cupboard."

Hugo heaved himself from the chair, looking more Russian than ever.
John watched his operations with some concern.

"Aren't you mixing it pretty strong?"

"I need it strong." The unhappy man emptied his glass, refilled it, and
returned to the chair. "In fact, it's a point verging very much on the
moot whether I ought to have put any water in it at all."

"What's the trouble?"

"This isn't bad whisky," said Hugo, becoming a little brighter.

"I know it isn't. What's the matter?"

The momentary flicker of cheerfulness died out. Gloom once more claimed
Hugo for its own.

"John, old man," he said. "We got the bird."

"Yes?"

"Don't say 'Yes?' like that, as if you had expected it," said Hugo,
hurt. "The thing came on me as a stunning blow. I was amazed.
Astounded. Absolutely nonplussed."

"Could I have knocked you down with a feather?"

"I thought we were going to be a riot. Of course, mind you, we came on
much too early. It was criminal to bill us next to opening. An audience
needs careful warming up for an intellectual act like ours!"

"What happened?"

Hugo rose and renewed the contents of his glass.

"There is a spirit creeping into the life of Rudge-in-the-Vale," he
said, "which I don't like to see. A spirit of lawlessness and licence.
Disruptive influences are at work. Bolshevik propaganda, I shouldn't
wonder. Would a Rudge audience have given me the bird a few years ago?
Not a chance!"

"But you've never tried them with the Quarrel Scene from _Julius Cæsar_
before. Everybody has a breaking point."

The argument was specious, but Hugo shook his head.

"In the good old days I could have done Hamlet's Soliloquy, and
the hall would have rung with hearty cheers. It's just this modern
lawlessness and Bolshevism. There was a very tough collection of the
Budd Street element standing at the back, who should never have been
let in. They started straight away chi-yiking the vicar during his
short address. I didn't think anything of it at the time. I merely
supposed that they wanted him to cheese it and let the entertainment
start. I thought that directly Ronnie and I came on we should grip
them. But we were barely a third of the way through when there were
loud cries of 'Tripe!' and 'Get off!'"

"I see what that meant. You hadn't gripped them."

"I was never so surprised in my life. Mark you, I'll admit that
Ronnie was perfectly rotten. He kept foozling his lines and saying
'Oh, sorry!' and going back and repeating them. You can't get the
best out of Shakespeare that way. The fact is, poor old Ronnie is
feeling a little low just now. He got a letter this morning from his
man, Bessemer, in London, a fellow who has been with him for years
and has few equals as a trouser presser, springing the news out of an
absolutely clear sky that he's been secretly engaged for weeks and is
just going to get married and leave Ronnie. Naturally, it has upset the
poor chap badly. With a thing like that on his mind, he should never
have attempted an exacting part like Brutus in the Quarrel Scene."

"Just what the audience thought, apparently. What happened after that?"

"Well, we buzzed along as well as we could, and we had just got to that
bit about digesting the venom of your spleen though it do split you,
when the proletariat suddenly started bunging vegetables."

"Vegetables?"

"Turnips, mostly, as far as I could gather. Now, do you see the
significance of that, John?"

"How do you mean, the significance?"

"Well, obviously these blighters had come prepared. They had meant to
make trouble right along. If not, why would they have come to a concert
with their pockets bulging with turnips?"

"They probably knew by instinct that they would need them."

"No! It was simply this bally Bolshevism one reads so much about."

"You think these men were in the pay of Moscow?"

"I shouldn't wonder. Well, that took us off. Ronnie got rather a beefy
whack on the side of the head and exited rapidly. And I wasn't going to
stand out there doing the Quarrel Scene by myself, so I exited, too.
The last I saw, Chas. Bywater had gone on and was telling Irish dialect
stories with a Swedish accent."

"Did they throw turnips at him?"

"Not one. That's the sinister part of it. That's what makes me so sure
the thing was an organized outbreak and all part of this Class War you
hear about. Chas. Bywater, in spite of the fact that his material was
blue round the edges, goes like a breeze, and gets off without a single
turnip, whereas Ronnie and I ... well," said Hugo, a hideous grimness
in his voice, "this has settled one thing. I've performed for the last
time for Rudge-in-the-Vale. Next year when they may come to me, and
plead with me to help out with the programme, I shall reply, 'Not after
what has occurred!' Well, thanks for the drink. I'll be buzzing along."
Hugo rose and wandered somnambulistically to the table. "What are you
doing?"

"Working."

"Working?"

"Yes, working."

"What at?"

"Accounts. Stop fiddling with those papers, curse you."

"What's this thing?"

"That," said John, removing it from his listless grasp and putting it
out of reach in a drawer, "is the diagram of a thing called an Alpha
Separator. It works by centrifugal force and can separate two thousand
seven hundred and twenty-four quarts of milk in an hour. It has also
a Holstein butter-churner attachment, and a boiler which at seventy
degrees centigrade destroys the obligatory and optional bacteria."

"Yes?

"Positively."

"Oh? Well, damn it, anyway," said Hugo.


                                  IV

Hugo crossed the strip of gravel which lay between the stable yard and
the house, and, having found in his trouser pocket the key of the back
door, proceeded to let himself in. His objective was the dining room.
He was feeling so much better after the refreshment of which he had
just partaken that reason told him he had found the right treatment for
his complaint. A few more swift ones from the cellarette in the dining
room and the depression caused by the despicable behaviour of the Budd
Street Bolshevists might possibly leave him altogether.

The passage leading to his goal was in darkness, but he moved steadily
forward. Occasionally a chair would dart from its place to crack him
over the shin, but he was not to be kept from the cellarette by trifles
like that. Soon his fingers were on the handle of the door, and he
flung it open and entered. And it was at this moment that there came to
his ears an odd noise.

It was not the noise itself that was odd. Feet scraping on gravel
always make that unmistakable sound. What impressed itself on Hugo
as curious was the fact that on the gravel outside the dining-room
window, feet at this hour should be scraping at all. His hand had been
outstretched to switch on the light, but now he paused. He waited,
listening. And presently in the oblong of the middle of the three large
windows he saw dimly against the lesser darkness outside a human body.
It was insinuating itself through the opening and what Hugo felt about
it was that he liked its dashed nerve.

Hugo Carmody was no poltroon. Both physically and morally he possessed
more than the normal store of courage. At Cambridge he had boxed for
his university in the light-weight division and once, in London, the
petty cash having run short, he had tipped a hat-check boy with an
aspirin tablet. Moreover, although it was his impression that the few
drops of whisky which he had drunk in John's room had but scratched
the surface, their effect in reality had been rather pronounced. "In
some diatheses," an eminent physician has laid down, "whisky is not
immediately pathogenic. In other cases the spirit in question produces
marked cachexia." Hugo's cachexia was very marked indeed. He would
have resented keenly the suggestion that he was fried, boiled, or even
sozzled, but he was unquestionably in a definite condition of cachexia.

In a situation, accordingly, in which many householders might have
quailed, he was filled with gay exhilaration. He felt able and willing
to chew the head off any burglar that ever packed a centrebit. Glowing
with cachexia and the spirit of adventure, he switched on the light
and found himself standing face to face with a small, weedy man beneath
whose snub nose there nestled a waxed moustache.

"Stand ho!" said Hugo jubilantly, falling at once into the vein of the
Quarrel Scene.

In the bosom of the intruder many emotions were competing for
precedence, but jubilation was not one of them. If Mr. Twist had had
a weak heart, he would by now have been lying on the floor breathing
his last, for few people can ever have had a nastier shock. He stood
congealed, blinking at Hugo.

Hugo, meanwhile, had made the interesting discovery that it was no
stranger who stood before him but an old acquaintance.

"Great Scot!" he exclaimed. "Old Doc. Twist! The beautiful,
tranquil-thoughts bird!" He chuckled joyously. His was a retentive
memory, and he could never forget that this man had once come within an
ace of ruining that big deal in cigarettes over at Healthward Ho, and
had also callously refused to lend him a tenner. Of such a man he could
believe anything, even that he combined with the duties of a physical
culture expert a little housebreaking and burglary on the side. "Well,
well, well!" said Hugo. "Remember March, the Ides of March remember!
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake? What villain touched his
body that did stab and not for justice? Answer me that, you blighter,
yes or no."

Chimp Twist licked his lips nervously. He was a little uncertain as to
the exact import of his companion's last words, but almost any words
would have found in him at this moment a distrait listener.

"Oh, I could weep my spirit from my eyes!" said Hugo.

Chimp could have done the same. With an intense bitterness he was
regretting that he had ever allowed Mr. Molloy to persuade him into
this rash venture. But he was a man of resource. He made an effort to
mend matters. Soapy, in a similar situation, would have done it better,
but Chimp, though not possessing his old friend's glib tongue and
insinuating manners, did the best he could. "You startled me," he said,
smiling a sickly smile.

"I bet I did," agreed Hugo cordially.

"I came to see your uncle."

"You what?"

"I came to see your uncle."

"Twist, you lie! And, what is more, you lie in your teeth."

"Now, see here...!" began Chimp, with a feeble attempt at belligerence.

Hugo checked him with a gesture.

"There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, for I am armed so
strong in honesty that they pass by me like the idle wind, which I
respect not. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be
frightened when a madman stares? By the gods, you shall digest the
venom of your spleen though it do split you. And what could be fairer
than that?" said Hugo.

Mr. Twist was discouraged, but he persevered.

"I guess it looked funny to you, seeing me come in through a window.
But, you see, I rang the front door bell and couldn't seem to make
anyone hear."

"Away, slight man!"

"You want me to go away?" said Mr. Twist, with a gleam of hope.

"You stay where you are, unless you'd like me to lean a decanter of the
best port up against your head," said Hugo. "And don't flicker," he
added, awakening to another grievance against this unpleasant little
man.

"Don't what?" inquired Mr. Twist, puzzled but anxious to oblige.

"Flicker. Your outline keeps wobbling, and I don't like it. And there's
another thing about you that I don't like. I've forgotten what it is
for the moment, but it'll come back to me soon."

He frowned darkly: and for the first time it was borne in upon Mr.
Twist that his young host was not altogether himself. There was a gleam
in his eyes which, in Mr. Twist's opinion, was far too wild to be
agreeable.

"I know," said Hugo, having reflected. "It's your moustache."

"My moustache?"

"Or whatever it is that's broken out on your upper lip. I dislike it
intensely. When Cæsar lived," said Hugo querulously, "he durst not thus
have moved me. And the worst thing of all is that you should have taken
a quiet, harmless country house and called it such a beastly, repulsive
name as Healthward Ho. Great Scot!" exclaimed Hugo. "I knew there was
something I was forgetting. All this while you ought to have been doing
bending and stretching exercises!"

"Your uncle, I guess, is still down at the concert thing in the
village?" said Mr. Twist, weakly endeavouring to change the
conversation.

Hugo started. A look of the keenest suspicion flashed into his eyes.

"Were you at that concert?" he said sternly.

"Me? No."

"Are you sure, Twist? Look me in the face."

"I've never been near any concert."

"I strongly suspect you," said Hugo, "of being one of the ringleaders
in that concerted plot to give me the bird. I think I recognized you."

"Not me."

"You're sure?"

"Sure."

"Oh? Well, that doesn't alter the cardinal fact that you are the
bloke who makes poor, unfortunate fat men do bending and stretching
exercises. So do a few now yourself."

"Eh?"

"Bend!" said Hugo. "Stretch!"

"Stretch?"

"And bend," said Hugo, insisting on full measure. "First bend, then
stretch. Let me see your chest expand and hear the tinkle of buttons as
you burst your waistcoat asunder."

Mr. Twist was now definitely of opinion that the gleam in the young
man's eyes was one of the most unpleasant and menacing things he had
ever encountered. Transferring his gaze from this gleam to the other's
well-knit frame, he decided that he was in the presence of one who,
whether his singular request was due to weakness of intellect or to
alcohol, had best be humoured.

"Get on with it," said Hugo.

He settled himself in a chair and lighted a cigarette. His whole
manner was suggestive of the blasé nonchalance of a sultan about to
be entertained by the court acrobat. But, though his bearing was
nonchalant, that gleam was still in his eyes, and Chimp Twist hesitated
no longer. He bent, as requested--and then, having bent, stretched. For
some moments he jerked his limbs painfully in this direction and in
that, while Hugo, puffing smoke, surveyed him with languid appreciation.

"Now tie yourself into a reefer knot," said Hugo.

Chimp gritted his teeth. A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering
happier things, and there came back to him the recollection of mornings
when he had stood at his window and laughed heartily at the spectacle
of his patients at Healthward Ho being hounded on to these very
movements by the vigilant Sergeant Flannery. How little he had supposed
that there would ever come a time when he would be compelled himself to
perform these exercises. And how little he had guessed at the hideous
discomfort which they could cause to a man who had let his body muscles
grow stiff.

"Wait," said Hugo, suddenly.

Mr. Twist was glad to do so. He straightened himself, breathing heavily.

"Are you thinking beautiful thoughts?"

Chimp Twist gulped. "Yes," he said, with a strong effort.

"Beautiful, tranquil thoughts?"

"Yes."

"Then carry on."

Chimp resumed his calisthenics. He was aching in every joint now, but
into his discomfort there had shot a faint gleam of hope. Everything in
this world has its drawbacks and its advantages. With the drawbacks to
his present situation he had instantly become acquainted, but now at
last one advantage presented itself to his notice--the fact, to wit,
that the staggerings and totterings inseparable from a performance
of the kind with which he was entertaining his limited but critical
audience had brought him very near to the open window.

"How are the thoughts?" asked Hugo. "Still beautiful?"

Chimp said they were, and he spoke sincerely. He had contrived to put
a space of several feet between himself and his persecutor, and the
window gaped invitingly almost at his side.

"Yours," said Hugo, puffing smoke meditatively, "has been a very happy
life, Twist. Day after day you have had the privilege of seeing my
uncle Lester doing just what you're doing now, and it must have beaten
a circus hollow. It's funny enough even when you do it, and you haven't
anything like his personality and appeal. If you could see what a
priceless ass you look it would keep you giggling for weeks. I know,"
said Hugo, receiving an inspiration; "do the one where you touch your
toes without bending the knees."

In all human affairs the semblance of any given thing is bound to vary
considerably with the point of view. To Chimp Twist, as he endeavoured
to comply with this request, it seemed incredible that what he was
doing could strike anyone as humorous. To Hugo, on the other hand,
it appeared as if the entertainment had now reached its apex of
wholesome fun. As Mr. Twist's purple face came up for the third time,
he abandoned himself whole-heartedly to mirth. He rocked in his chair,
and, rashly trying to inhale cigarette smoke at the same time, found
himself suddenly overcome by a paroxysm of coughing.

It was the moment for which Chimp Twist had been waiting. There is,
as Ronnie Fish would have observed in the village hall an hour or so
earlier if the audience had had the self-restraint to let him get as
far as that, a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood,
leads on to fortune. Chimp did not neglect the opportunity which
Fate had granted him. With an agile bound he was at the window, and,
rendered supple, no doubt, by his recent exercises, leaped smartly
through it.

He descended heavily on the dog Emily. Emily, wandering out for a
last stroll before turning in, had just paused beneath the window to
investigate a smell which had been called to her attention on the
gravel. She was trying to make up her mind whether it was rats or the
ghost of a long-lost bone when the skies suddenly started raining heavy
bodies on her.


                                   V

Emily was a dog who, as a rule, took things as they came, her guiding
motto in life being the old Horatian _nil admirari_, but she could
lose her poise. She lost it now. A startled oath escaped her, and
for a brief instant she was completely unequal to the situation. In
this instant, Chimp, equally startled but far too busy to stop, had
disengaged himself and was vanishing into the darkness.

A moment later Hugo came through the window. His coughing fit had spent
itself, and he was now in good voice again. He was shouting.

At once Emily became herself again. All her sporting blood stirred in
answer to these shouts. She forgot her agony. Her sense of grievance
left her. Recognizing Hugo, she saw all things clearly, and realized
in a flash that here at last was the burglar for whom she had been
waiting ever since her conversation with that wire-haired terrier over
at Webleigh Manor.

John had taken her to lunch there one day and, fraternizing with
the Webleigh dog under the table, she had immediately noticed in
his manner something aloof and distinctly patronizing. It had then
come out in conversation that they had had a burglary at the Manor
a couple of nights ago, and the wire-haired terrier, according to
his own story, had been the hero of the occasion. He spoke with an
ill-assumed offhandedness of barking and bitings and chasings in the
night, and, though he did not say it in so many words, gave Emily
plainly to understand that it took an unusual dog to grapple with such
a situation, and that in a similar crisis she herself would inevitably
be found wanting. Ever since that day she had been longing for a chance
to show her mettle, and now it had come. Calling instructions in a high
voice, she raced for the bushes into which Chimp had disappeared. Hugo,
a bad third, brought up the rear of the procession.

Chimp, meanwhile, had been combining with swift movement some very
rapid thinking. Fortune had been with him in the first moments of this
dash for safety, but now, he considered, it had abandoned him, and he
must trust to his native intelligence to see him through. He had not
anticipated dogs. Dogs altered the whole complexion of the affair. To
a go-as-you-please race across country with Hugo he would have trusted
himself, but Hugo in collaboration with a dog was another matter. It
became now a question not of speed but of craft; and he looked about
him, as he ran, for a hiding place, for some shelter from this canine
and human storm which he had unwittingly aroused.

And Fortune, changing sides again, smiled upon him once more. Emily,
who had been coming nicely, attempted very injudiciously at this
moment to take a short cut and became involved in a bush. And Chimp,
accelerating an always active brain, perceived a way out. There was a
low stone wall immediately in front of him, and beyond it, as he came
up, he saw the dull gleam of water.

It was not an ideal haven, but he was in no position to pick and
choose. The interior of the tank from which the gardeners drew
ammunition for their watering cans had, for one who from childhood had
always disliked bathing, a singularly repellent air. Those dark, oily
looking depths suggested the presence of frogs, newts, and other slimy
things that work their way down a man's back and behave clammily around
his spine. But it was most certainly a place of refuge.

He looked over his shoulder. An agitated crackling of branches
announced that Emily had not yet worked clear, and Hugo had apparently
stopped to render first aid. With a silent shudder Chimp stepped into
the tank and, lowering himself into the depths, nestled behind a water
lily.

Hugo was finding the task of extricating Emily more difficult than he
had anticipated. The bush was one of those thorny, adhesive bushes, and
it twined itself lovingly in Emily's hair. Bad feeling began to rise,
and the conversation took on an acrimonious tone.

"Stand still!" growled Hugo. "Stand still, you blighter dog."

"Push," retorted Emily. "Push, I tell you! Push, not pull. Don't you
realize that all the while we're wasting time here that fellow's
getting away?"

"Don't wriggle, confound you. How can I get you out if you keep
wriggling?"

"Try a lift in an upward direction. No, that's no good. Stop pushing
and pull. Pull, I tell you. Pull not push. Now, when I say '_To_
you ...'"

Something gave. Hugo staggered back. Emily sprang from his grasp. The
chase was on again.

But now all the zest had gone out of it. The operations in the bush
had occupied only a bare couple of minutes, but they had been enough
to allow the quarry to vanish. He had completely disappeared. Hugo,
sitting on the wall of the tank and trying to recover his breath,
watched Emily as she darted to and fro, inspecting paths and drawing
shrubberies, and knew that he had failed. It was a bitter moment, and
he sat and smoked moodily. Presently even Emily gave the thing up. She
came back to where Hugo sat, her tongue lolling, and disgust written
all over her expressive features. There was a silence. Emily thought
it was all Hugo's fault, Hugo thought it was Emily's. A stiffness had
crept into their relations once again, and when at length Hugo, feeling
a little more benevolent after three cigarettes, reached down and
scratched Emily's head, the latter drew away coldly.

"Damn fool!" she said.

Hugo started. Was it some sound, some distant stealthy footstep, that
had caused his companion to speak? He stared into the night.

"Fat head!" said Emily. "Can't even pull somebody out of a bush."

She laughed mirthlessly, and Hugo, now keenly on the alert, rose from
his seat and gazed this way and that. And then, moving softly away from
him at the end of the path, he saw a dark figure.

Instantly, Hugo Carmody became once more the man of action. With a
stern shout he dashed along the path. And he had not gone half a dozen
feet when the ground seemed suddenly to give way under him.

This path, as he should have remembered, knowing the terrain as he
did, was a terrace path, set high above the shrubberies below. It was
a simple enough matter to negotiate it in daylight and at a gentle
stroll, but to race successfully along it in the dark required a
Blondin. Hugo's third stride took him well into the abyss. He clutched
out desperately, grasped only cool Worcestershire night air, and then,
rolling down the slope, struck his head with great violence against a
tree which seemed to have been put there for the purpose.

When the sparks had cleared away and the firework exhibition was over,
he rose painfully to his feet.

A voice was speaking from above--the voice of Ronald Overbury Fish.

"Hullo!" said the voice. "What's up?"


                                  VI

Weighed down by the burden of his many sorrows, Ronnie Fish had come
to this terrace path to be alone. Solitude was what he desired, and
solitude was what he supposed he had got until, abruptly, without any
warning but a wild shout, the companion of his school and university
days had suddenly dashed out from empty space and apparently attempted
to commit suicide. Ronnie was surprised. Naturally no fellow likes
getting the bird at a village concert, but Hugo, he considered, in
trying to kill himself was adopting extreme measures. He peered down,
going so far in his natural emotion as to remove the cigarette holder
from his mouth.

"What's up?" he asked again.

Hugo was struggling dazedly up the bank.

"Was that you, Ronnie?"

"Was what me?"

"That."

"Which?"

Hugo approached the matter from another angle.

"Did you see anyone?"

"When?"

"Just now. I thought I saw someone on the path. It must have been you."

"It was. Why?"

"I thought it was somebody else."

"Well, it wasn't."

"I know, but I thought it was."

"Who did you think it was?"

"A fellow called Twist."

"Twist?"

"Yes, Twist."

"Why?"

"I've been chasing him."

"Chasing Twist?"

"Yes. I caught him burgling the house."

They had been walking along, and now reached a spot where the light,
freed from overhanging branches, was stronger. Mr. Fish became aware
that his friend had sustained injuries.

"I say," he said, "you've hurt your head."

"I know I've hurt my head, you silly ass."

"It's bleeding, I mean."

"Bleeding?"

"Bleeding."

Blood is always interesting. Hugo put a hand to his wound, took it away
again, inspected it.

"By Jove! I'm bleeding."

"Yes, bleeding. You'd better go in and have it seen to."

"Yes," Hugo reflected. "I'll go and get old John to fix it. He once put
six stitches in a cow."

"What cow?"

"One of the cows. I forget its name."

"Where do we find this John?"

"He's in his room over the stables."

"Can you walk it all right?"

"Oh yes, rather,"

Ronnie, relieved, lighted a cigarette, and approached an aspect of the
affair which had been giving him food for thought.

"I say, Hugo, have you been having a few drinks or anything?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, buzzing about the place after non-existent burglars."

"They weren't non-existent. I tell you I caught this man Twist...."

"How do you know it was Twist?"

"I've met him."

"Who? Twist?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"He runs a place called Healthward Ho near here."

"What's Healthward Ho?"

"It's a place where fellows go to get fit. My uncle was there."

"And Twist runs it?"

"Yes."

"And you think this--dash it, this pillar of society was burgling the
house?"

"I caught him, I tell you."

"Who? Twist?"

"Yes."

"Well, where is he, then?"

"I don't know."

"Listen, old man," said Ronnie gently. "I think you'd better be pushing
along and getting that bulb of yours repaired."

He remained gazing after his friend, as he disappeared in the direction
of the stable yard, with much concern. He hated to think of good old
Hugo getting into a mental state like this, though, of course, it was
only what you could expect if a man lived in the country all the time.
He was still brooding when he heard footsteps behind him and looked
round and saw Mr. Lester Carmody approaching.

Mr. Carmody was in a condition which in a slimmer man might have
been called fluttering. He, like John, had absented himself from the
festivities in the village, wishing to be on the spot when Mr. Twist
made his entry into the house. He had seen Chimp get through the
dining-room window and had instantly made his way to the front hall,
proposing to wait there and see the precious suitcase duly deposited
in the cupboard under the stairs. He had waited, but no Chimp had
appeared. And then there had come to his ears barkings and shoutings
and uproar in the night. Mr. Carmody, like Othello, was perplexed in
the extreme.

"Ah, Carmody," said Mr. Fish.

He waved a kindly cigarette holder at his host. The latter regarded
him with tense apprehension. Was his guest about to announce that
Mr. Twist, caught in the act, was now under lock and key? For some
reason or other, it was plain, Hugo and this unspeakable friend of his
had returned at an unexpectedly early hour from the village, and Mr.
Carmody feared the worst.

"I've got a bit of bad news for you, Carmody," said Mr. Fish. "Brace
up, my dear fellow."

Mr. Carmody gulped.

"What--what--what...."

"Poor old Hugo. Gone clean off his mental axis."

"What! What do you mean?"

"I found him just now running round in circles and dashing his head
against trees. He said he was chasing a burglar. Of course there wasn't
anything of the sort on the premises. For, mark this, my dear Carmody:
according to his statement, which I carefully checked, the burglar was
a most respectable fellow named Twist, who runs a sort of health place
near here. You know him, I believe?"

"Slightly," said Mr. Carmody. "Slightly."

"Well, would a man in that position go about burgling houses? Pure
delusion, of course."

Mr. Carmody breathed a deep sigh. Relief had made him feel a little
faint.

"Undoubtedly," he said. "Hugo was always weak-minded from a boy."

"By the way," said Mr. Fish, "did you by any chance get up at five in
the morning the other day and climb a ladder to look for swallows'
nests?"

"Certainly not."

"I thought as much. Hugo said he saw you. Delusion again. The whole
truth of the matter is, my dear Carmody, living in the country has
begun to soften poor old Hugo's brain. You must act swiftly. You don't
want a gibbering nephew about the place. Take my tip and send him away
to London at the earliest possible moment."

It was rare for Lester Carmody to feel gratitude for the advice
which this young man gave him so freely, but he was grateful now. He
perceived clearly that a venture like the one on which he and his
colleagues had embarked should never have been undertaken while the
house was full of infernal, interfering young men. Such was his emotion
that for an instant he almost liked Mr. Fish.

"Hugo was saying that you wished him to become your partner in some
commercial enterprise," he said.

"A night club. The Hot Spot. Situated just off Bond Street, in the
heart of London's pleasure-seeking area."

"You were going to give him a half share for five hundred pounds, I
believe?"

"Five hundred was the figure."

"He shall have the cheque immediately," said Mr. Carmody. "I will go
and write it now. And to-morrow you shall take him to London. The best
trains are in the morning. I quite agree with you about his mental
condition. I am very much obliged to you for drawing it to my notice."

"Don't mention it, Carmody," said Mr. Fish graciously. "Only too glad,
my dear fellow. Always a pleasure, always a pleasure."


                                  VII

John had returned to his work and was deep in it when Hugo and his
wounded head crossed his threshold. He was startled and concerned.

"Good heavens!" he cried. "What's been happening?"

"Fell down a bank and bumped the old lemon against a tree," said Hugo,
with the quiet pride of a man who has had an accident. "I looked in to
see if you had got some glue or something to stick it up with."

John, as became one who thought nothing of putting stitches in cows,
exhibited a cool efficiency. He bustled about, found water and cotton
wool and iodine, and threw in sympathy as a make-weight. Only when the
operation was completed did he give way to a natural curiosity.

"How did it happen?"

"Well, it started when I found that bounder Twist burgling the house."

"Twist?"

"Yes. Twist. The Healthward Ho bird."

"You found Doctor Twist burgling the house?"

"Yes, and I made him do bending and stretching exercises. And in the
middle he legged it through the window, and Emily and I chivvied him
about the garden. Then he disappeared, and I saw him again at the end
of that path above the shrubberies, and I dashed after him and took a
toss and it wasn't Twist at all, it was Ronnie."

John forbore to ask further questions. This incoherent tale satisfied
him that his cousin, if not delirious, was certainly on the borderland.
He remembered the whole-heartedness with which Hugo had drowned his
sorrows only a short while back in this very room, and he was satisfied
that what the other needed was rest.

"You'd better go to bed," he said. "I think I've fixed you up pretty
well, but perhaps you had better see the doctor to-morrow."

"Doc. Twist?"

"No, not Doctor Twist," said John soothingly. "Doctor Bain, down in the
village."

"Something ought to be done about the man Twist," argued Hugo.
"Somebody ought to pop it across him."

"If I were you I'd just forget all about Twist. Put him right out of
your mind."

"But are we going to sit still and let perishers with waxed moustaches
burgle the house whenever they feel inclined and not do a thing to
bring their gray hairs in sorrow to the grave?"

"I wouldn't worry about it, if I were you, I'd just go off and have a
nice long sleep."

Hugo raised his eyebrows, and, finding that the process caused
exquisite agony to his wounded head, quickly lowered them again. He
looked at John with cold disapproval, pained at this evidence of
supineness in a member of a proud family.

"Oh?" he said. "Well, bung--oh, then!"

"Good night."

"Give my love to the Alpha Separator and all the little Separators."

"I will," said John.

He accompanied his cousin down the stairs and out into the stable yard.
Having watched him move away and feeling satisfied that he could reach
the house without assistance, he felt in his pocket for the materials
for the last smoke of the day, and was filling his pipe when Emily came
round the corner.

Emily was in great spirits.

"Such larks!" said Emily. "One of those big nights. Burglars dashing
to and fro, people falling over banks and butting their heads against
trees, and everything bright and lively. But let me tell you something.
A fellow like your cousin Hugo is no use whatever to a dog in any real
emergency. He's not a force. A broken reed. You should have seen him.
He...."

"Stop that noise and get to bed," said John.

"Right ho," said Emily. "You'll be coming soon, I suppose?"

She charged up the stairs, glad to get to her basket after a busy
evening. John lighted his pipe, and began to meditate. Usually he
smoked the last pipe of the day to the accompaniment of thoughts about
Pat, but now he found his mind turning to this extraordinary delusion
of Hugo's that he had caught Doctor Twist, of Healthward Ho, burgling
the house.

John had never met Doctor Twist, but he knew that he was the proprietor
of a flourishing health-cure establishment and assumed him to be a
reputable citizen; and the idea that he had come all the way from
Healthward Ho to burgle Rudge Hall was so bizarre that he could not
imagine by what weird mental processes his cousin had been led to
suppose that he had seen him. Why Doctor Twist, of all people? Why not
the vicar or Chas. Bywater?

Footsteps sounded on the gravel, and he was aware of the subject of his
thoughts returning. There was a dazed expression on Hugo's face, and in
his hand there fluttered a small oblong slip of paper.

"John," said Hugo, "look at this and tell me if you see what I see. Is
it a cheque?"

"Yes."

"For five hundred quid, made out to me and signed by Uncle Lester?"

"Yes."

"Then there _is_ a Santa Claus!" said Hugo reverently. "John, old man,
it's absolutely uncanny. Directly I got into the house just now Uncle
Lester called me to his study, handed me this cheque, and told me that
I could go to London with Ronnie to-morrow and help him start that
night club. You remember me telling you about Ronnie's night club,
the Hot Spot, situated just off Bond Street in the heart of London's
pleasure-seeking area? Or did I? Well, anyway, he is starting a night
club there, and he offered me a half share if I'd put up five hundred.
By the way, Uncle Lester wants you to go to London to-morrow, too."

"Me. Why?"

"I fancy he's got the wind up a bit about this burglary business
to-night. He said something about wanting you to go and see the
insurance people--to bump up the insurance a trifle, I suppose. He'll
explain. But, listen, John. It really is the most extraordinary thing,
this. Uncle Lester starting to unbelt, I mean, and scattering money all
over the place. I was absolutely right when I told Pat this morning...."

"Have you seen Pat?"

"Met her this morning on the bridge. And I said to her ..."

"Did she--er--ask after me?"

"No."

"No?" said John hollowly.

"Not that I remember. I brought your name into the talk, and we had a
few words about you, but I don't recollect her asking after you." Hugo
laid a hand on his cousin's arm. "It's no use, John. Be a man! Forget
her. Keep plugging away at that Molloy girl. I think you're beginning
to make an impression. I think she's softening. I was watching her
narrowly last night, and I fancied I saw a tender look in her eyes when
they fell on you. I may have been mistaken, but that's what I fancied.
A sort of shy, filmy look. I'll tell you what it is, John. You're much
too modest. You underrate yourself. Keep steadily before you the fact
that almost anybody can get married if they only plug away at it. Look
at this man Bessemer, for instance, Ronnie's man that I told you about.
As ugly a devil as you would wish to see outside the House of Commons,
equipped with number sixteen feet and a face more like a walnut than
anything. And yet he has clicked. The moral of which is that no one
need ever lose hope. You may say to yourself that you have no chance
with this Molloy girl, that she will not look at you. But consider the
case of Bessemer. Compared with him, you are quite good looking. His
ears alone...."

"Good night," said John.

He knocked out his pipe and turned to the stairs. Hugo thought his
manner abrupt.


                                 VIII

Sergeant-Major Flannery, that able and conscientious man, walked
briskly up the main staircase of Healthward Ho. Outside a door off the
second landing he stopped and knocked.

A loud sneeze sounded from within.

"Cub!" called a voice.

Chimp Twist, propped up with pillows, was sitting in bed, swathed in
a woollen dressing gown. His face was flushed, and he regarded his
visitor from under swollen eyelids with a moroseness which would have
wounded a more sensitive man. Sergeant-Major Flannery stood six feet
two in his boots: he had a round, shiny face at which it was agony for
a sick man to look, and Chimp was aware that when he spoke it would
be in a rolling, barrack-square bellow which would go clean through
him like a red-hot bullet through butter. One has to be in rude health
and at the top of one's form to bear up against the Sergeant-Major
Flannerys of this world.

"Well?" he muttered thickly.

He broke off to sniff at a steaming jug which stood beside his bed, and
the Sergeant-Major, gazing down at him with the offensive superiority
of a robust man in the presence of an invalid, fingered his waxed
moustache. The action intensified Chimp's dislike. From the first he
had been jealous of that moustache. Until it had come into his life
he had always thought highly of his own fungoid growth, but one look
at this rival exhibit had taken all the heart out of him. The thing
was long and blond and bushy, and it shot heavenward into two glorious
needle-point ends, a shining zareba of hair quite beyond the scope of
any mere civilian. Non-army men may grow moustaches and wax them and
brood over them and be fond and proud of them, but to obtain a waxed
moustache in the deepest and holiest sense of the words you have to be
a sergeant-major.

"Oo-er!" said Mr. Flannery. "That's a nasty cold you've got."

Chimp, as if to endorse this opinion, sneezed again.

"A nasty, feverish cold," proceeded the Sergeant-Major in the tones in
which he had once been wont to request squads of recruits to number off
from the right. "You ought to do something about that cold."

"I ab dog sobthig about it," growled Chimp, having recourse to the jug
once more.

"I don't mean sniffing at jugs, sir. You won't do yourself no good
sniffing at jugs, Mr. Twist. You want to go to the root of the matter,
if you understand the expression. You want to attack it from the
stummick. The stummick is the seat of the trouble. Get the stummick
right and the rest follows natural."

"Wad do you wad?"

"There's some say quinine and some say a drop of camphor on a lump of
sugar and some say cinnamon, but you can take it from me the best thing
for a nasty feverish cold in the head is taraxacum and hops. There is
no occasion to damn my eyes, Mr. Twist. I am only trying to be 'elpful.
You send out for some taraxacum and hops, and before you know where you
are...."

"Wad do you wad?"

"I'm telling you. There's a gentleman below--a gentleman who's called,"
said Sergeant-Major Flannery, making his meaning clear. "A gentleman,"
being still more precise, "who's called at the front door in a
nortermobile. He wants to see you."

"Well, he can't."

"Says his name's Molloy."

"Molloy?"

"That's what he _said_," replied Mr. Flannery, as one declining to be
quoted or to accept any responsibility.

"Oh? All right. Send him up."

"Taraxacum and hops," repeated the Sergeant-Major, pausing at the door.

He disappeared, and a few moments later returned, ushering in Soapy. He
left the two old friends together, and Soapy approached the bed with
rather an awe-struck air.

"You've got a cold," he said.

Chimp sniffed--twice. Once with annoyance and once at the jug.

"So would you have a code if you'd been sitting up to your neck in
water for half an hour last night and had to ride home tweddy biles
wriggig wet on a motorcycle."

"Says which?" exclaimed Soapy, astounded.

Chimp related the saga of the previous night, touching disparagingly on
Hugo and saying some things about Emily which it was well she could not
hear.

"And that leds me out," he concluded.

"No, no!"

"I'm through."

"Don't say that."

"I do say thad."

"But, Chimpie, we've got it all fixed for you to get away with the
stuff to-night."

Chimp stared at him incredulously.

"To-night? You thig I'm going out to-night with this code of mine, to
clibe through windows and be run off my legs by ..."

"But, Chimpie, there's no danger of that now. We've got everything set.
That guy Hugo and his friend are going to London this morning, and so's
the other fellow. You won't have a thing to do but walk in."

"Oh?" said Chimp.

He relapsed into silence, and took a thoughtful sniff at the jug.
This information, he was bound to admit, did alter the complexion of
affairs. But he was a business man.

"Well, if I do agree to go out and risk exposing this nasty, feverish
code of mine to the night air, which is the worst thig a man can
do--ask any doctor...."

"Chimpie!" cried Mr. Molloy in a stricken voice. His keen intuition
told him what was coming.

"... I don't do it on any sigsdy-forty basis. Sigsdy-five--thirty-five
is the figure."

Mr. Molloy had always been an eloquent man--without a natural turn
for eloquence you cannot hope to traffic successfully in the baser
varieties of oil stocks; but never had he touched the sublime heights
of oratory to which he soared now. Even the first few words would have
been enough to melt most people. Nevertheless when at the end of five
minutes he paused for breath, he knew that he had failed to grip his
audience.

"Sigsdy-five--thirty-five," said Chimp firmly. "You need me, or you
wouldn't have brought me into this. If you could have worked the job by
yourself, you'd never have tode me a word about it."

"I can't work it by myself. I've got to have an alibi. I and the wife
are going to a theatre to-night in Birmingham."

"That's what I'm saying. You can't get alog without me. And that's why
it's going to be sigsdy-five--thirty-five."

Mr. Molloy wandered to the window and looked hopelessly out over the
garden.

"Think what Dolly will say when I tell her," he pleaded.

Chimp replied ungallantly that Dolly and what she might say meant
little in his life. Mr. Molloy groaned hollowly.

"Well, I guess if that's the way you feel...."

Chimp assured him it was.

"Then I suppose that's the way we'll have to fix it."

"All right," said Chimp. "Then I'll be there somewheres about eleven,
or a little later, maybe. And you needn't bother to leave any window
opud this time. Just have a ladder laying around and I'll bust the
window of the picture gallery, where the stuff is. It'll be more
trouble, but I dode bide takid a bidder trouble to make thigs look more
natural. You just see thad ladder's where I can fide it, and then you
can leave all the difficud part of it to me."

"Difficult!"

"Difficud was what I said," returned Chimp. "Suppose I trip over
somethig id the dark? Suppose I slip on the stairs? Suppose the ladder
breaks? Suppose that dog gets after me again? That dog's not going to
London, is it? Well, then! Besides, considering that I may quide ligely
get pneumonia and pass in my checks.... What did you say?"

Mr. Molloy had not spoken. He had merely sighed wistfully.




                             CHAPTER VIII


                                   I

Although anxious thought for the comfort of his juniors was not
habitually one of Lester Carmody's outstanding qualities, in planning
his nephew John's expedition to London he had been considerateness
itself. John, he urged, must on no account dream of trying to make the
double journey in a single day. Apart from the fatigue inseparable from
such a performance, he was a young man, and young men, Mr. Carmody
pointed out, are always the better for a little relaxation, and an
occasional taste of the pleasures which a metropolis has to offer. Let
John have a good dinner in London, go to a theatre, sleep comfortably
at a first-class hotel and return at his leisure on the morrow.

Nevertheless, in spite of his uncle's solicitude nightfall found the
latter hurrying back into Worcestershire in the Widgeon Seven. He did
not admit that he was nervous, yet there had undoubtedly come upon
him something that resembled uneasiness. He had been thinking a good
deal during his ride to London about the peculiar behaviour of his
cousin Hugo on the previous night. The supposition that Hugo had found
Doctor Twist of Healthward Ho trying to burgle Rudge Hall was, of
course, too absurd for consideration, but it did seem possible that he
had surprised some sort of an attempt upon the house. Rambling and
incoherent as his story had been, it had certainly appeared to rest
upon that substratum of fact, and John had protested rather earnestly
to his uncle against being sent to London, on an errand which could
have been put through much more simply by letter, at a time when
burglars were in the neighbourhood.

Mr. Carmody had laughed at his apprehensions. It was most unlikely, he
pointed out, that Hugo had ever seen a marauder at all. But assuming
that he had done so, and that he had surprised him and pursued him
about the garden, was it reasonable to suppose that the man would
return on the very next night? And if, finally, he did return, the mere
absence of John would make very little difference. Unless he proposed
to patrol the grounds all night, John, sleeping as he did over the
stable yard, could not be of much help, and even without him Rudge
Hall was scarcely in a state of defencelessness. Sturgis, the butler,
it was true, must, on account of age and flat feet, be reckoned a
non-combatant, but apart from Mr. Carmody himself the garrison, John
must recollect, included the intrepid Thomas G. Molloy, a warrior at
the very mention of whose name Bad Men in Western mining camps had in
days gone by trembled like aspens.

It was all very plausible, yet John, having completed his business in
London, swallowed an early dinner and turned the head of the Widgeon
Seven homeward.

It is often the man with smallest stake in a venture that has its
interests most deeply at heart. His uncle Lester John had always
suspected of a complete lack of interest in the welfare of Rudge Hall;
and, as for Hugo, that urban-minded young man looked on the place as a
sort of penitentiary, grudging every moment he was compelled to spend
within its ancient walls. To John it was left to regard Rudge in the
right Carmody spirit, the spirit of that Nigel Carmody who had once
held it for King Charles against the forces of the Commonwealth. Where
Rudge was concerned, John was fussy. The thought of intruders treading
its sacred floors appalled him. He urged the Widgeon Seven forward at
its best speed and reached Rudge as the clock over the stables was
striking eleven.

The first thing that met his eye as he turned in at the stable yard
was the door of the garage gaping widely open and empty space in the
spot where the Dex-Mayo should have stood. He ran the two-seater in,
switched off the engine and the lights, and, climbing down stiffly,
proceeded to ponder over this phenomenon. The only explanation he could
think of was that his uncle must have ordered the car out after dinner
on an expedition of some kind. To Birmingham, probably. The only place
you ever went to from Rudge after nightfall was Birmingham.

John thought he could guess what must have happened. He did not often
read the Birmingham papers himself, but the _Post_ came to the house
every morning: and he seemed to see Miss Molloy, her appetite for
entertainment whetted rather than satisfied by the village concert,
finding in its columns the announcement that one of the musical
comedies of her native land was playing at the Prince of Wales. No
doubt she had wheedled his uncle into taking herself and her father
over there, with the result that here the house was without anything in
the shape of protection except butler Sturgis, who had been old when
John was a boy.

A wave of irritation passed over John. Two long drives in the Widgeon
Seven in a single day had induced even in his whip-cord body a certain
measure of fatigue. He had been looking forward to tumbling into bed
without delay, and this meant that he must remain up and keep vigil
till the party's return. Well, at least he would rout Emily out of her
slumbers.

"Hullo?" said Emily sleepily, in answer to his whistle. "Yes?"

"Come down," called John.

There was a scrabbling on the stairs. Emily bounded out, full of life.

"Well, well, well!" she said. "You back?"

"Come along."

"What's up? More larks?"

"Don't make such a beastly noise," said John. "Do you know what time it
is?"

They walked out together and proceeded to make a slow circle of the
house. And gradually the magic of the night began to soften John's
annoyance. The grounds of Rudge Hall, he should have remembered, were
at their best at this hour and under these conditions. Shy little
scents were abroad which did not trust themselves out in the daytime,
and you needed stillness like this really to hear the soft whispering
of the trees.

London had been stiflingly hot, and this sweet coolness was like balm.
Emily had disappeared into the darkness, which probably meant that she
would clump back up the stairs at two in the morning having rolled in
something unpleasant, and ruin his night's repose by leaping on his
chest, but he could not bring himself to worry about it. A sort of
beatific peace was upon him. It was almost as though an inner voice
were whispering to him that he was on the brink of some wonderful
experience. And what experience the immediate future could hold except
the possible washing of Emily when she finally decided to come home he
was unable to imagine.

Moving at a leisurely pace, he worked round to the back of the house
again and stepped off the grass on to the gravel outside the stable
yard. And as his shoes grated in the warm silence a splash of white
suddenly appeared in the blackness before him.

"Johnnie?"

He came back on his heels as if he had received a blow. It was the
voice of Pat, sounding in the warm silence like moonlight made audible.

"Is that you, Johnnie?"

John broke into a little run. His heart was jumping, and all the
happiness which had been glowing inside him had leaped up into a
roaring flame. That mysterious premonition had meant something, after
all. But he had never dreamed it could mean anything so wonderful as
this.


                                  II

The night was full of stars, but overhanging trees made the spot where
they stood a little island of darkness in which all that was visible
of Pat was a faint gleaming of white. John stared at her dumbly. Only
once in his life before could he remember having felt as he felt now,
and that was one raw November evening at school at the close of the
football match against Marlborough when, after battling wearily through
a long half hour to preserve the slenderest of all possible leads, he
had heard the referee's whistle sound through the rising mists and had
stood up, bruised and battered and covered with mud, to the realization
that the game was over and won. He had had his moments since then: he
had captained Oxford and played for England, and had touched happiness
in other and milder departments of life, but never again till now had
he felt that strange, almost awful ecstasy.

Pat, for her part, appeared composed.

"That mongrel of yours is a nice sort of watch-dog," she said. "I've
been flinging tons of gravel at your window and she hasn't uttered a
sound."

"Emily's gone away somewhere."

"I hope she gets bitten by a rabbit," said Pat. "I'm off that hound for
life. I met her in the village a little while ago and she practically
cut me dead."

There was a pause.

"Pat!" said John, thickly.

"I thought I'd come up and see how you were getting on. It was such
a lovely night, I couldn't go to bed. What were you doing, prowling
round?"

It suddenly came home to John that he was neglecting his vigil. The
thought caused him no remorse whatever. A thousand burglars with a
thousand jemmies could break into the Hall and he would not stir a step
to prevent them.

"Oh, just walking."

"Were you surprised to see me?"

"Yes."

"We don't see much of each other nowadays."

"I didn't know.... I wasn't sure you wanted to see me."

"Good gracious! What made you think that?"

"I don't know."

Silence fell upon them again. John was harassed by a growing
consciousness that he was failing to prove himself worthy of this
golden moment which the Fates had granted to him. Was this all he was
capable of--stiff, halting words which sounded banal even to himself?
A night like this deserved, he felt, something better. He saw himself
for an instant as he must be appearing to a girl like Pat, a girl who
had been everywhere and met all sorts of men--glib, dashing men; suave,
ingratiating men; men of poise and _savoir faire_ who could carry
themselves with a swagger. An aching humility swept over him.

And yet she had come here to-night to see him. The thought a little
restored his self-respect, and he was trying with desperate search in
the unexplored recesses of his mind to discover some remark which would
show his appreciation of that divine benevolence, when she spoke again.

"Johnnie, let's go out on the moat."

John's heart was singing like one of the morning stars. The suggestion
was not one which he would have made himself, for it would not
have occurred to him, but, now that it had been made, he saw how
super-excellent it was. He tried to say so, but words would not come to
him.

"You don't seem very enthusiastic," said Pat. "I suppose you think I
ought to be at home and in bed?"

"No."

"Perhaps you want to go to bed?"

"No."

"Well, come on then."

They walked in silence down the yew-hedged path that led to the
boathouse. The tranquil beauty of the night wrapped them about as in a
garment. It was very dark here, and even the gleam of white that was
Pat had become indistinct.

"Johnnie?"

"Yes?"

He heard her utter a little exclamation. Something soft and scented
stumbled against him, and for an instant he was holding her in his
arms. The next moment he had very properly released her again, and he
heard her laugh.

"Sorry," said Pat. "I stumbled."

John did not reply. He was incapable of speech. That swift moment of
contact had had the effect of clarifying his mental turmoil. Luminously
now he perceived what was causing his lack of eloquence. It was the
surging, choking desire to kiss Pat, to reach out and snatch her up in
his arms and hold her there.

He stopped abruptly.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing," said John.

Prudence, the kill-joy, had whispered in his ear. He visualized
Prudence as a thin, pale-faced female with down-drawn lips and
mild, warning stare who murmured thinly, "Is it wise?" Before her
whisper primitive emotions fled, abashed. The caveman in John fled
back into the dim past whence he had come. Most certainly, felt the
Twentieth-Century John, it would not be wise. Very clearly Pat had
shown him, that night in London, that all that she could give him was
friendship, and to gratify the urge of some distant ancestor who ought
to have been ashamed of himself he had been proposing to shatter the
delicate crystal of this friendship into fragments. He shivered at the
narrowness of escape.

He had heard stories. In stories girls drew their breath in sharply and
said "Oh, why must you spoil everything like this?" He decided not to
spoil everything. Walking warily, he reached the little gate that led
to the boathouse steps and opened it with something of a flourish.

"Be careful," he said.

"What of?" said Pat. It seemed to John that she spoke a trifle flatly.

"These steps are rather tricky."

"Oh?" said Pat.


                                  III

He followed her into the punt, oppressed once more by a feeling that
something had gone wrong with what should have been the most wonderful
night of his life. Girls are creatures of moods, and Pat seemed now
to have fallen into one of odd aloofness. She said nothing as he
pushed the boat out, and remained silent as it slid through the water
with a little tinkling ripple, bearing them into a world of stars and
coolness, where everything was still and the trees stood out against
the sky as if carved out of cardboard.

"Are you all right?" said John, at last.

"Splendid, thanks." Pat's mood seemed to have undergone another swift
change. Her voice was friendly again. She nestled into the cushions.
"This is luxury. Do you remember the old days when there was nothing
but the weed-boat?"

"They were pretty good days," said John wistfully.

"They were, rather," said Pat.

The spell of the summer night held them silent again. No sound
broke the stillness but the slap of tiny waves and the rhythmic dip
and splash of the paddle. Then with a dry flittering a bat wheeled
overhead, and out somewhere by the little island where the birds nested
something leaped noisily in the water. Pat raised her head.

"A pike?"

"Must have been."

Pat sat up and leaned forward.

"That would have excited Father," she said. "I know he's dying to get
out here and have another go at the pike. Johnnie, I do wish somebody
could do something to stop this absurd feud between him and Mr.
Carmody. It's too silly. I know Father would be all over Mr. Carmody if
only he would make some sort of advance. After all, he did behave very
badly. He might at least apologize."

John did not reply for a moment. He was thinking that whoever tried
to make his uncle apologize for anything had a whole-time job on his
hands. Obstinate was a mild word for the squire of Rudge. Pigs bowed
as he passed, and mules could have taken his correspondence course.

"Uncle Lester's a peculiar man," he said.

"But he might listen to you."

"He might," said John doubtfully.

"Well, will you try? Will you go to him and say that all Father wants
is for him to admit he was in the wrong? Good heavens! It isn't asking
much of a man to admit that when he's nearly murdered somebody."

"I'll try."

"Hugo says Mr. Carmody has gone off his head, but he can't have gone
far enough off not to be able to see that Father has a perfect right
to be offended at being grabbed round the waist and used as a dug-out
against dynamite explosions."

"I think Hugo's off his head," said John. "He was running round the
garden last night, dashing himself against trees. He said he was
chasing a burglar."

Pat was not to be diverted into a discussion of Hugo's mental
deficiencies.

"Well, will you do your best, Johnnie? Don't just let things slide
as if they didn't matter. I tell you, it's rotten for me. Father
found me talking to Hugo the other day and behaved like something out
of a super-film. He seemed sorry there wasn't any snow, so that he
couldn't drive his erring daughter out into it. If he knew I was up
here to-night he would foam with fury. He says I mustn't speak to you
or Hugo or Mr. Carmody or Emily--not that I want to speak to Emily,
the little blighter--nor your ox nor your ass nor anything that is
within your gates. He's put a curse on the Hall. It's one of those
comprehensive curses, taking in everything from the family to the mice
in the kitchen, and I tell you I'm jolly well fed up. This place has
always been just like a home to me, and you ..."

John paused in the act of dipping his paddle into the water.

"... and you have always been just like a brother ..."

John dug the paddle down with a vicious jerk.

"... and if Father thinks it doesn't affect me to be told I mustn't
come here and see you, he's wrong. I suppose most girls nowadays would
just laugh at him, but I can't. It isn't his being angry I'd mind--it
would hurt his feelings so frightfully if I let him down and went
fraternizing with the enemy. So I have to come here on the sly, and if
there's one thing in the world I hate it's doing things on the sly. So
do reason with that old pig of an uncle of yours, Johnnie. Talk to him
like a mother."

"Pat," said John fervently, "I don't know how it's going to be done,
but if it can be done I'll do it."

"That's the stuff! You're a funny old thing, Johnnie. In some ways
you're so slow, but I believe when you really start out to do anything
you generally put it through."

"Slow?" said John, stung. "How do you mean, slow?"

"Well, don't you think you're slow?"

"In what way?"

"Oh, just slow."

In spite of the fact that the stars were shining bravely, the night was
very dark, much too dark for John to be able to see Pat's face; he got
the impression that, could he have seen it, he would have discovered
that she was smiling that old mocking smile of hers. And somehow,
though in the past he had often wilted meekly and apologetically
beneath this smile, it filled him now with a surge of fury. He plied
the paddle wrathfully, and the boat shot forward.

"Don't go so fast," said Pat.

"I thought I was slow," retorted John, sinking back through the years
to the repartee of school days.

Pat gurgled in the darkness.

"Did I wound you, Johnnie? I'm sorry. You aren't slow. It's just
prudence, I expect."

Prudence! John ceased to paddle. He was tingling all over, and there
had come upon him a strange breathlessness.

"How do you mean, prudence?"

"Oh, just prudence. I can't explain."

Prudence! John sat and stared through the darkness in a futile effort
to see her face. A water rat swam past, cleaving a fan-shaped trail.
The stars winked down at him. In the little island a bird moved among
the reeds. Prudence! Was she referring...? Had she meant...? Did she
allude...?

He came to life and dug the paddle into the water. Of course she
wasn't. Of course she hadn't. Of course she didn't. In that little
episode on the path, he had behaved exactly as he should have behaved.
If he behaved as he should not have behaved, if he had behaved as that
old flint-axe and bearskin John of the Stone Age would have had him
behave, he would have behaved unpardonably. The swift intake of the
breath and the "Oh, why must you spoil everything like this?"--that was
what would have been the result of listening to the advice of a bounder
of an ancestor who might have been a social success in his day, but
naturally didn't understand the niceties of modern civilization.

Nevertheless, he worked with unnecessary vigour at the paddle, calling
down another rebuke from his passenger.

"Don't race along like that. Are you trying to hint that you want to
get this over as quickly as you can and send me home to bed?"

"No," was all John could find to say.

"Well, I suppose I ought to be thinking of bed. I'll tell you what.
We'll do the thing in style. The Return by Water. You can take me out
into the Skirme and down as far as the bridge and drop me there. Or is
that too big a programme? You're probably tired."

John had motored two hundred miles that day, but he had never felt less
tired. His view was that he wished they could row on for ever.

"All right," he said.

"Push on, then," said Pat. "Only do go slowly. I want to enjoy this. I
don't want to whizz by all the old landmarks. How far to Ghost Corner?"

"It's just ahead."

"Well, take it easy."

The moat proper was a narrow strip of water which encircled the Hall
and had been placed there by the first Carmody in the days when
householders believed in making things difficult for their visitors.
With the gradual spread of peace throughout the land its original
purposes had been forgotten, and later members of the family had
broadened it and added to it and tinkered with it and sprinkled it with
little islands with the view of converting it into something resembling
as nearly as possible an ornamental lake. Apparently it came to an end
at the spot where a mass of yew trees stood forbiddingly in a gloomy
row, that haunted spot which Pat as a child had named Ghost Corner;
but if you approached this corner intrepidly you found there a narrow
channel. Which navigated, you came into a winding stream which led past
meadows and under bridges to the upper reaches of the Skirme.

"How old were you, Johnnie, when you were first brave enough to come
past Ghost Corner at night all by yourself?" asked Pat.

"Sixteen."

"I bet you were much more than that."

"I did it on my sixteenth birthday."

Pat stretched out a hand and the branches brushed her fingers.

"I wouldn't do it even now," she said. "I know perfectly well a skinny
arm covered with black hair would come out of the yews and grab me.
There's something that looks like a skinny arm hovering at the back of
your neck now, Johnnie. What made you such a hero that particular day?"

"You had betted me I wouldn't, if you remember."

"I don't remember. Did I?"

"Well, you egged me on with taunts."

"And you went and did it? What a good influence I've been in your life,
haven't I? Oh, dear! It's funny to think of you and me as kids on this
very bit of water and here we are again now, old and worn and quite
different people, and the water's just the same as ever."

"I'm not different."

"Yes, you are."

"What makes you say I'm different?"

"Oh, I don't know."

John stopped paddling. He wanted to get to the bottom of this.

"Why do you say I'm different?"

"Those white things through the trees there must be geese."

John was not interested in geese.

"I'm not different at all," he said, "I...." He broke off. He had been
on the verge of saying that he had loved her then and that he loved her
still--which, he perceived, would have spoiled everything. "I'm just
the same," he concluded lamely.

"Then why don't you sport with me on the green as you did when you
were a growing lad? Here you have been back for days, and to-night is
the first glimpse I get of you. And, even so, I had to walk a mile and
fling gravel at your window. In the old days you used to live on my
doorstep. Do you think I've enjoyed being left all alone all this time?"

John was appalled. Put this way, the facts did seem to point to a
callous negligence on his part. And all the while he had been supposing
his conduct due to delicacy and a sense of what was fitting and would
be appreciated. In John's code, it was the duty of a man who has told
a girl he loved her and been informed that she does not love him to
efface himself, to crawl into the background, to pass out of her life
till the memory of his crude audacity shall have been blotted out by
time. Why, half the big game shot in Africa owed their untimely end, he
understood, to this tradition.

"I didn't know...."

"What?"

"I didn't know you wanted to see me."

"Of course I wanted to see you. Look here, Johnnie. I'll tell you what.
Are you doing anything to-morrow?"

"No."

"Then get out that old rattletrap of yours and gather me up at my
place, and we'll go off and have a regular picnic like we used to do
in the old days. Father is lunching out. You could come at about one
o'clock. We could get out to Wenlock Edge in an hour. It would be
lovely there if this weather holds up. What do you say?"

John did not immediately say anything. His feelings were too deep for
words. He urged the boat forward, and the Skirme received it with that
slow, grave, sleepy courtesy which made it for right-thinking people
the best of all rivers.

"Pat!" said John at length, devoutly.

"Will you?"

"Will I!"

"All right. That's splendid. I'll expect you at one."

The Skirme rippled about the boat, chuckling to itself. It was a
kindly, thoughtful river, given to chuckling to itself like an old
gentleman who likes to see young people happy.

"We used to have some topping picnics in the old days," said Pat
dreamily.

"We did," said John.

"Though why on earth you ever wanted to be with a beastly, bossy,
consequential, fractious kid like me, goodness knows."

"You were fine," said John.

The Old Bridge loomed up through the shadows. John had steered the
boat shoreward, and it brushed against the reeds with a sound like the
blowing of fairy bugles.

Pat scrambled out and bent down to where he sat, holding to the bank.

"I'm not nearly so beastly now, Johnnie," she said in a whisper.
"You'll find that out some day, perhaps, if you're very patient. Good
night, Johnnie, dear. Don't forget to-morrow."

She flitted away into the darkness, and John, releasing his hold on the
bank and starting up as if he had had an electric shock, was carried
out into mid-stream. He was tingling from head to foot. It could not
have happened, of course, but for a moment he had suddenly received the
extraordinary impression that Pat had kissed him.

"Pat!" he called, choking.

There came no answer out of the night--only the sleepy chuckling of the
Skirme as it pottered on to tell its old friend the Severn about it.

"Pat!"

John drove the paddle forcefully into the water, and the Skirme,
ceasing to chuckle, uttered two loud gurgles of protest as if resenting
treatment so violent. The nose of the boat bumped against the bank,
and he sprang ashore. He stood there, listening. But there was nothing
to hear. Silence had fallen on an empty world.

A little sound came to him in the darkness. The Skirme was chuckling
again.




                              CHAPTER IX


                                   I

John woke late next day, and in the moment between sleeping and waking
was dimly conscious of a feeling of extraordinary happiness. For some
reason, which he could not immediately analyze, the world seemed
suddenly to have become the best of all possible worlds. Then he
remembered, and sprang out of bed with a shout.

Emily, lying curled up in her basket, her whole appearance that of a
dog who has come home with the milk, raised a drowsy head. Usually it
was her custom to bustle about and lend a hand while John bathed and
dressed, but this morning she did not feel equal to it. Deciding that
it was too much trouble even to tell him about the man she had seen in
the grounds last night, she breathed heavily twice and returned to her
slumbers.

Having dressed and come out into the open, John found that he had
missed some hours of what appeared to be the most perfect morning in
the world's history. The stable yard was a well of sunshine: light
breezes whispered in the branches of the cedars: fleecy clouds swam in
a sea of blue: and from the direction of the home farm there came the
soothing crooning of fowls. His happiness swelled into a feeling of
universal benevolence toward all created things. He looked upon the
birds and found them all that birds should be: the insects which hummed
in the sunshine were, he perceived, a quite superior brand of insect:
he even felt fraternal toward a wasp which came flying about his face.
And when the Dex-Mayo rolled across the bridge of the moat and Bolt,
applying the brakes, drew up at his side, he thought he had never seen
a nicer-looking chauffeur.

"Good morning, Bolt," said John, effusively.

"Good morning, sir."

"Where have you been off to so early?"

"Mr. Carmody sent me to Worcester, sir, to leave a bag for him at Shrub
Hill station. If you're going into the house, Mr. John, perhaps you
wouldn't mind giving him the ticket?"

John was delighted. It was a small kindness that the chauffeur was
asking, and he wished it had been in his power to do something for him
on a bigger scale. However, the chance of doing even small kindnesses
was something to be grateful for on a morning like this. He took the
ticket and put it in his pocket.

"How are you, Bolt?"

"All right, thank you, sir."

"How's Mrs. Bolt?"

"She's all right, Mr. John."

"How's the baby?"

"The baby's all right."

"And the dog?"

"The dog's all right, sir."

"That's splendid," said John. "That's great. That's fine. That's
capital. I'm delighted."

He smiled a radiant smile of cheeriness and good will, and turned
toward the house. However much the heart may be uplifted, the animal in
a man insists on demanding breakfast, and, though John was practically
pure spirit this morning, he was not blind to the fact that a couple of
eggs and a cup of coffee would be no bad thing. As he reached the door,
he remembered that Mrs. Bolt had a canary and that he had not inquired
after that, but decided that the moment had gone by. Later on, perhaps.
He opened the back door and made his way to the morning room, where
eggs abounded and coffee could be had for the asking. Pausing only to
tickle a passing cat under the ear and make chirruping noises to it, he
went in.

The morning room was empty, and there were signs that the rest of the
party had already breakfasted. John was glad of it. Genially disposed
though he felt toward his species to-day, he relished the prospect
of solitude. A man who is about to picnic on Wenlock Edge in perfect
weather with the only girl in the world, wants to meditate, not to make
conversation.

So thoroughly had his predecessors breakfasted that he found, on
inspecting the coffee pot, that it was empty. He rang the bell.

"Good morning, Sturgis," he said affably, as the butler appeared. "You
might give me some more coffee, will you?"

The butler of Rudge Hall was a little man with snowy hair who had been
placidly withering in Mr. Carmody's service for the last twenty years.
John had known him ever since he could remember, and he had always been
just the same--frail and venerable and kindly and dried-up. He looked
exactly like the Good Old Man in a touring melodrama company.

"Why, Mr. John! I thought you were in London."

"I got back late last night. And very glad," said John heartily, "to be
back. How's the rheumatism, Sturgis?"

"Rather troublesome, Mr. John."

John was horrified. Could these things be on such a day as this?

"You don't say so?"

"Yes, Mr. John. I was awake the greater portion of the night."

"You must rub yourself with something and then go and lie down and have
a good rest. Where do you feel it mostly?"

"In the limbs, Mr. John. It comes on in sharp twinges."

"That's bad. By Jove, yes, that's bad. Perhaps this fine weather will
make it better."

"I hope so, Mr. John."

"So do I, so do I," said John earnestly. "Tell me, where is everybody?"

"Mr. Hugo and the young gentleman went up to London."

"Of course, yes. I was forgetting."

"Mr. Molloy and Miss Molloy finished their breakfast some little time
ago, and are now out in the garden."

"Ah, yes. And my uncle?"

"He is up in the picture gallery with the policeman, Mr. John."

John stared.

"With the what?"

"With the policeman, Mr. John, who's come about the burglary."

"Burglary?"

"Didn't you hear, Mr. John, we had a burglary last night?"

The world being constituted as it is, with Fate waiting round almost
every corner with its sandbag, it is not often that we are permitted to
remain for long undisturbed in our moods of exaltation. John came down
to earth swiftly.

"Good heavens!"

"Yes, Mr. John. And if you could spare the time...."

Remorse gripped John. He felt like a sentinel who, falling asleep at
his post, has allowed the enemy to creep past him in the night.

"I must go up and see about this."

"Very good, Mr. John. But if I might have a word...."

"Some other time, Sturgis."

He ran up the stairs to the picture gallery. Mr. Carmody and Rudge's
one policeman were examining something by the window, and John, in the
brief interval which elapsed before they became aware of his presence,
was enabled to see the evidence of the disaster. Several picture
frames, robbed of their contents, gaped at him like blank windows.
A glass case containing miniatures had been broken and rifled. The
Elizabethan salt cellar presented to Aymas Carmody by the Virgin Queen
herself was no longer in its place.

"Gosh!" said John.

Mr. Carmody and his companion turned.

"John! I thought you were in London."

"I came back last night."

"Did you see, or observe or hear anything of this business?" asked the
policeman.

Constable Mould was one of the slowest-witted men in Rudge, and he had
eyes like two brown puddles filmed over with scum, but he was doing his
best to look at John keenly.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I wasn't here."

"You said you were, sir," Constable Mould pointed out cleverly.

"I mean, I wasn't anywhere near the house," replied John impatiently.
"Immediately I arrived I went out for a row on the moat."

"Then you did not see or observe anything?"

"No."

Constable Mould, who had been licking the tip of his pencil and holding
a notebook in readiness, subsided disappointedly.

"When did this happen?" asked John.

"It is impossible to say," replied Mr. Carmody. "By a most unfortunate
combination of circumstances the house was virtually empty from almost
directly after dinner. Hugo and his friend, as you know, left for
London yesterday morning. Mr. Molloy and his daughter took the car
to Birmingham to see a play. And I myself retired to bed early with
a headache. The man could have effected an entrance without being
observed almost any time after eight o'clock. No doubt he actually did
break in shortly before midnight."

"How did he get in?"

"Undoubtedly through this window by means of a ladder."

John perceived that the glass of the window had been cut out.

"Another most unfortunate thing," proceeded Mr. Carmody, "is that the
objects stolen, though so extremely valuable, are small in actual size.
The man could have carried them off without any inconvenience. No doubt
they are miles away by this time, possibly even in London."

"Was this here stuff insured?" asked Constable Mould.

"Yes. Curiously enough, the reason my nephew here went to London
yesterday was to increase the insurance. You saw to that matter, John?"

"Oh, yes." John spoke absently. Like everybody else who has ever found
himself on the scene of a recently committed burglary, he was looking
about for clues. "Hullo!"

"What is the matter?"

"Did you see this?"

"Certainly I saw it," said Mr. Carmody.

"I saw it first," said Constable Mould.

"The man must have cut his finger getting it."

"That's what I thought," said Constable Mould.

The combined Mould-Carmody-John discovery was a bloodstained
fingerprint on the woodwork of the window sill: and, like so many
things in this world, it had at first sight the air of being much
more important than it really was. John said he considered it valuable
evidence, and felt damped when Mr. Carmody pointed out that its value
was decreased by the fact that it was not easy to search through the
whole of England for a man with a cut finger.

"I see," said John.

Constable Mould said he had seen it right away.

"The only thing to be done, I suppose," said Mr. Carmody resignedly,
"is to telephone to the police in Worcester. Not that they will
be likely to effect anything, but it is as well to observe the
formalities. Come downstairs with me, Mould."

They left the room, the constable, it seemed to John, taking none
too kindly to the idea that there were higher powers in the world of
detection than himself. His uncle, he considered, had shown a good
deal of dignity in his acceptance of the disaster. Many men would have
fussed and lost their heads, but Lester Carmody remained calm. John
thought it showed a good spirit.

He wandered about the room, hoping for more and better clues. But the
difficulty confronting the novice on these occasions is that it is so
hard to tell what is a clue and what is not. Probably, if he only knew,
there were clues lying about all over the place, shouting to him to
pick them up. But how to recognize them? Sherlock Holmes can extract a
clue from a wisp of straw or a flake of cigar ash. Doctor Watson has to
have it taken out for him and dusted and exhibited clearly with a label
attached. John was forced reluctantly to the conclusion that he was
essentially a Doctor Watson. He did not rise even to the modest level
of a Scotland Yard Bungler.

He awoke from a reverie to find Sturgis at his side.


                                  II

"Ah, Sturgis," said John absently.

He was not particularly pleased to see the butler. The man looked as if
he were about to dodder, and in moments of intense thought one does not
wish to have doddering butlers around one.

"Might I have a word, Mr. John?"

John supposed he might, though he was not frightfully keen about it. He
respected Sturgis's white hairs, but the poor old ruin had horned in at
an unfortunate moment.

"My rheumatism was very bad last night, Mr. John."

John recognized the blunder he had made in being so sympathetic just
now. At the time, feeling, as he had done, that all mankind were his
little brothers, to inquire after and display a keen interest in
Sturgis's rheumatism had been a natural and, one might say, unavoidable
act. But now he regretted it. He required every cell in his brain for
this very delicate business of clue-hunting, and it was maddening to be
compelled to call a number of them off duty to attend to gossip about
a butler's swollen joints. A little coldly he asked Sturgis if he had
ever tried Christian Science.

"It kept me awake a very long time, Mr. John."

"I read in a paper the other day that bee stings sometimes have a good
effect."

"Bee stings, sir?"

"So they say. You get yourself stung by bees, and the acid or whatever
it is in the sting draws out the acid or whatever it is in you."

Sturgis was silent for a while, and John supposed he was about to
ask if he could direct him to a good bee. Such, however, was not the
butler's intention. It was Sturgis, the old retainer with the welfare
of Rudge Hall nearest his heart--not Sturgis the sufferer from twinges
in the limbs--who was present now in the picture gallery.

"It is very kind of you, Mr. John," he said, "to interest yourself, but
what I wished to have a word with you about was this burglary of ours
last night."

This was more the stuff. John became heartier.

"A most mysterious affair, Sturgis. The man apparently climbed in
through this window, and no doubt escaped the same way."

"No, Mr. John. That's what I wished to have a word with you about. He
went away down the front stairs."

"What! How do you know?"

"I saw him, Mr. John."

"You saw him?"

"Yes, Mr. John. Owing to being kept awake by my rheumatism."

The remorse which had come upon John at the moment when he had first
heard the news of the burglary was as nothing to the remorse which
racked him now. Just because this fine old man had one of those mild,
goofy faces and bleated like a sheep when he talked, he had dismissed
him without further thought as a dodderer. And all the time the
splendid old fellow, who could not help his face and was surely not to
be blamed if age had affected his vocal chords, had been the God from
the Machine, sent from heaven to assist him in getting to the bottom
of this outrage. There is no known case on record of a man patting a
butler on the head, but John at this moment came very near to providing
one.

"You saw him!"

"Yes, Mr. John."

"What did he look like?"

"I couldn't say, Mr. John, not really definite."

"Why couldn't you?"

"Because I did not really see him."

"But you said you did."

"Yes, Mr. John, but only in a manner of speaking."

John's new-born cordiality waned a little. His first estimate, he felt,
had been right. This was doddering, pure and simple.

"How do you mean, only in a manner of speaking?"

"Well, it was like this, Mr. John...."

"Look here," said John. "Tell me the whole thing right from the start."

Sturgis glanced cautiously at the door. When he spoke, it was in a
lowered voice, which gave his delivery the effect of a sheep bleating
with cotton wool in its mouth.

"I was awake with my rheumatism last night, Mr. John, and at last it
come on so bad I felt I really couldn't hardly bear it no longer. I
lay in bed, thinking, and after I had thought for quite some time, Mr.
John, it suddenly crossed my mind that Mr. Hugo had once remarked,
while kindly interesting himself in my little trouble, that a glassful
of whisky, drunk without water, frequently alleviated the pain."

John nodded. So far, the story bore the stamp of truth. A glassful
of neat whisky was just what Hugo would have recommended for any
complaint, from rheumatism to a broken heart.

"So I thought in the circumstances that Mr. Carmody would not object if
I tried a little. So I got out of bed and put on my overcoat, and I had
just reached the head of the stairs, it being my intention to go to the
cellarette in the dining room, when what should I hear but a noise."

"What sort of noise?"

"A sort of sneezing noise, Mr. John. As it might be somebody sneezing."

"Yes? Well?"

"I was stottled."

"Stottled? Oh, yes, I see. Well?"

"I remained at the head of the stairs. For quite a while I remained at
the head of the stairs. Then I crope ..."

"You what?"

"I crope to the door of the picture gallery."

"Oh, I see. Yes?"

"Because the sneezing seemed to have come from there. And then I heard
another sneeze. Two or three sneezes, Mr. John. As if whoever was in
there had got a nasty cold in the head. And then I heard footsteps
coming toward the door."

"What did you do?"

"I went back to the head of the stairs again, sir. If anybody had told
me half an hour before that I could have moved so quick I wouldn't
have believed him. And then out of the door came a man carrying a bag.
He had one of those electric torches. He went down the stairs, but it
was only when he was at the bottom that I caught even a glimpse of his
face."

"But you did then?"

"Yes, Mr. John, for just a moment. And I was stottled."

"Why? You mean he was somebody you knew?"

The butler lowered his voice again.

"I could have sworn, Mr. John, it was that Doctor Twist who came over
here the other day from Healthward Ho."

"Doctor Twist!"

"Yes, Mr. John. I didn't tell the policeman just now, and I wouldn't
tell anybody but you, because after all it was only a glimpse, as
you might say, and I couldn't swear to it, and there's defamation of
character to be considered. So I didn't mention it to Mr. Mould when
he was inquiring of me. I said I'd heard nothing, being in my bed at
the time. Because, apart from defamation of character and me not being
prepared to swear on oath, I wasn't sure how Mr. Carmody would like the
idea of my going to the dining-room cellarette even though in agonies
of pain. So I'd be much obliged if you would not mention it to him, Mr.
John."

"I won't."

"Thank you, sir."

"You'd better leave me to think this over, Sturgis."

"Very good, Mr. John."

"You were quite right to tell me."

"Thank you, Mr. John. Are you coming downstairs to finish your
breakfast, sir?"

John waved away the material suggestion.

"No. I want to think."

"Very good, Mr. John."

Left alone, John walked to the window and frowned meditatively out.
His brain was now working with a rapidity and clearness which the most
professional of detectives might have envied. For the first time since
his cousin Hugo had come to him to have his head repaired he began to
realize that there might have been something, after all, in that young
man's rambling story. Taken in conjunction with what Sturgis had just
told him, Hugo's weird tale of finding Doctor Twist burgling the house
became significant.

This Twist, now. After all, what about him? He had come from nowhere to
settle down in Worcestershire, ostensibly in order to conduct a health
farm. But what if that health farm were a mere blind for more dastardly
work. After all, it was surely a commonplace that your scientific
criminal invariably adopted some specious cover of respectability for
his crimes....

Into the radius of John's vision there came Mr. Thomas G. Molloy,
walking placidly beside the moat with his dashing daughter. It seemed
to John as if he had been sent at just this moment for a purpose.
What he wanted above all things was a keen-minded sensible man of the
world with whom to discuss these suspicions of his, and who was better
qualified for this rôle than Mr. Molloy? Long since he had fallen
under the spell of the other's magnetic personality, and had admired
the breadth of his intellect. Thomas G. Molloy was, it seemed to him,
the ideal confidant.

He left the room hurriedly, and ran down the stairs.


                                  III

Mr. Molloy was still strolling beside the moat when John arrived. He
greeted him with his usual bluff kindliness. Soapy, like John some half
hour earlier, was feeling amiably disposed toward all mankind this
morning.

"Well, well, well!" said Soapy. "So you're back? Did you have a
pleasant time in London?"

"All right, thanks. I wanted to see you...."

"You've heard about this unfortunate business last night?"

"Yes. It was about that...."

"I have never been so upset by anything in my life," said Mr. Molloy.
"By pure bad luck Dolly here and myself went over to Birmingham
after dinner to see a show, and in our absence the outrage must have
occurred. I venture to say," went on Mr. Molloy, a stern look creeping
into his eyes, "that if only I'd been on the spot the thing could never
have happened. My hearing's good, and I'm pretty quick on a trigger,
Mr. Carroll--pretty quick, let me tell you. It would have taken a right
smart burglar to have gotten past me."

"You bet it would," said Dolly. "Gee! It's a pity. And the man didn't
leave a single trace, did he?"

"A fingerprint--or it may have been a thumb print--on the sill of the
window, honey. That was all. And I don't see what good that's going to
do us. You can't round up the population of England and ask to see
their thumbs."

"And outside of that not so much as a single trace. Isn't it too bad!
From start to finish not a soul set eyes on the fellow."

"Yes, they did," said John. "That's what I came to talk to you about.
One of the servants heard a noise and came out and saw him going down
the staircase."

If he had failed up to this point to secure the undivided attention of
his audience, he had got it now. Miss Molloy seemed suddenly to come
all eyes, and so tremendous were the joy and relief of Mr. Molloy that
he actually staggered.

"Saw him?" exclaimed Miss Molloy.

"Sus-saw him?" echoed her father, scarcely able to speak in his delight.

"Yes. Do you by any chance know a man named Twist?"

"Twist?" said Mr. Molloy, still speaking with difficulty. He wrinkled
his forehead. "Twist? Do I know a man named Twist, honey?"

"The name seems kind of familiar," admitted Miss Molloy.

"He runs a place called Healthward Ho about twenty miles from here. My
uncle stayed there for a couple of weeks. It's a place where people go
to get into condition--a sort of health farm, I suppose you would call
it."

"Of course, yes. I have heard Mr. Carmody speak of his friend Twist.
But...."

"Apparently he called here the other day--to see my uncle, I
suppose--and this servant I'm speaking about saw him and is convinced
that he was the burglar."

"Improbable, surely?" Mr. Molloy seemed still to be having a little
trouble with his breath. "Surely not very probable. This man Twist,
from what you tell me, is a personal friend of your uncle. Why,
therefore.... Besides, if he owns a prosperous business...."

John was not to be put off the trail by mere superficial argument.
Doctor Watson may be slow at starting, but, once started, he is a
bloodhound for tenacity.

"I've thought of all that. I admit it did seem curious at first. But
if you come to look into it you can see that the very thing a burglar
who wanted to operate in these parts would do is to start some business
that would make people unsuspicious of him."

Mr. Molloy shook his head.

"It sounds far-fetched to me."

John's opinion of his sturdy good sense began to diminish.

"Well, anyhow," he said in his solid way, "this servant is sure he
recognized Twist, and one can't do any harm by going over there and
having a look at the man. I've got quite a good excuse for seeing him.
My uncle's having a dispute about his bill, and I can say I came over
to discuss it."

"Yes," said Mr. Molloy in a strained voice. "But----"

"Sure you can," said Miss Molloy, with sudden animation. "Smart of you
to think of that. You need an excuse, if you don't want to make this
Twist fellow suspicious."

"Exactly," said John.

He looked at the girl with something resembling approval.

"And there's another thing," proceeded Miss Molloy, warming to her
subject. "Don't forget that this bird, if he's the man that did the
burgling last night, has a cut finger or thumb. If you find this Twist
is going around with sticking plaster on him, why then that'll be
evidence."

John's approval deepened.

"That's a great idea," he agreed. "What I was thinking was that I
wanted to find out if Twist has a cold in the head."

"A kuk-kuk-kuk...?" said Mr. Molloy.

"Yes. You see, the burglar had. He was sneezing all the time, my
informant tells me."

"Well, say, this begins to look like the goods," cried Miss Molloy
gleefully. "If this fellow has a cut thumb _and_ a cold in the head,
there's nothing to it. It's all over except tearing off the false
whiskers and saying 'I am Hawkshaw, the Detective!' Say, listen. You
get that little car of yours out and you and I will go right over to
Healthward Ho, now. You see, if I come along that'll make him all the
more unsuspicious. We'll tell him I'm a girl with a brother that's been
whooping it up a little too heavily for some time past, and I want to
make inquiries with the idea of putting him where he can't get the
stuff for a while. I'm sure you're on the right track. This bird Twist
is the villain of the piece, I'll bet a million dollars. As you say, a
fellow that wanted to burgle houses in these parts just naturally would
settle down and pretend to be something respectable. You go and get
that car out, Mr. Carroll, and we'll be off right away."

John reflected. Filled though he was with the enthusiasm of the chase,
he could not forget that his time to-day was ear-marked for other and
higher things than the investigation of the mysterious Doctor Twist, of
Healthward Ho.

"I must be back here by a quarter to one," he said.

"Why?"

"I must."

"Well, that's all right. We're not going to spend the week end with
this guy. We're simply going to take a look at him. As soon as we've
done that, we come right home and turn the thing over to the police.
It's only twenty miles. You'll be back here again before twelve."

"Of course," said John. "You're perfectly right. I'll have the car out
in a couple of minutes."

He hurried off. His views concerning Miss Molloy now were definitely
favourable. She might not be the sort of girl he could ever like,
she might not be the sort of girl he wanted staying at the Hall, but
it was idle to deny that she had her redeeming qualities. About her
intelligence, for instance, there was, he felt, no doubt whatsoever.

And yet it was with regard to this intelligence that Soapy Molloy was
at this very moment entertaining doubts of the gravest kind. His eyes
were protruding a little, and he uttered an odd, strangled sound.

"It's all right, you poor sap," said Dolly, meeting his shocked gaze
with a confident unconcern.

Soapy found speech.

"All right? You say it's all right? How's it all right? If you hadn't
pulled all that stuff...."

"Say, listen!" said Dolly urgently. "Where's your sense? He would have
gone over to see Chimp anyway, wouldn't he? Nothing we could have done
would have headed him off that, would it? And he'd noticed Chimp had a
cut finger, without my telling him, wouldn't he? All I've done is to
make him think I'm on the level and working in cahoots with him."

"What's the use of that?"

"I'll tell you what use it is. I know what I'm doing. Listen, Soapy,
you just race into the house and get those knock-out drops and give
them to me. And make it snappy," said Dolly.

As when on a day of rain and storm there appears among the clouds a
tiny gleam of blue, so now, at those magic words "knock-out drops," did
there flicker into Mr. Molloy's sombre face a faint suggestion of hope.

"Don't you worry, Soapy. I've got this thing well in hand. When we've
gone you jump to the 'phone and get Chimp on the wire and tell him this
guy and I are on our way over. Tell him I'm bringing the kayo drops and
I'll slip them to him as soon as I arrive. Tell him to be sure to have
something to drink handy and to see that this bird gets a taste of it."

"I get you, pettie!" Mr. Molloy's manner was full of a sort of
awe-struck reverence, like that of some humble adherent of Napoleon
listening to his great leader outlining plans for a forthcoming
campaign; but nevertheless it was tinged with doubt. He had always
admired his wife's broad, spacious outlook, but she was apt sometimes,
he considered, in her fresh young enthusiasm, to overlook details.
"But, pettie," he said, "is this wise? Don't forget you're not in
Chicago now. I mean, supposing you do put this fellow to sleep, he's
going to wake up pretty soon, isn't he? And when he does won't he raise
an awful holler?"

"I've got that all fixed. I don't know what sort of staff Chimp keeps
over at that joint of his, but he's probably got assistants and all
like that. Well, you tell him to tell them that there's a young lady
coming over with a brother that wants looking after, and this brother
has got to be given a sleeping draught and locked away somewhere to
keep him from getting violent and doing somebody an injury. That'll get
him out of the way long enough for us to collect the stuff and clear
out. It's rapid action now, Soapy. Now that Chimp has gummed the game
by letting himself be seen we've got to move quick. We've got to make
our getaway to-day. So don't you go off wandering about the fields
picking daisies after I've gone. You stick round that 'phone, because
I'll be calling you before long. See?"

"Honey," said Mr. Molloy devoutly, "I always said you were the brains
of the firm, and I always will say it. I'd never have thought of a
thing like this myself in a million years."


                                  IV

It was about an hour later that Sergeant-Major Flannery, seated at his
ease beneath a shady elm in the garden of Healthward Ho, looked up
from the novelette over which he had been relaxing his conscientious
mind and became aware that he was in the presence of Youth and Beauty.
Toward him, across the lawn, was walking a girl who, his experienced
eye assured him at a single glance, fell into that limited division of
the Sex which is embraced by the word "Pippin." Her willowy figure was
clothed in some clinging material of a beige colour, and her bright
hazel eyes, when she came close enough for them to be seen, touched in
the Sergeant-Major's susceptible bosom a ready chord. He rose from his
seat with easy grace, and his hand, falling from the salute, came to
rest on the western section of his waxed moustache.

"Nice morning, miss," he bellowed.

It seemed to Sergeant-Major Flannery that this girl was gazing upon him
as on some wonderful dream of hers that had unexpectedly come true, and
he was thrilled. It was unlikely, he felt, that she was about to ask
him to perform some great knightly service for her, but if she did he
would spring smartly to attention and do it in a soldierly manner while
she waited. Sergeant-Major Flannery was pro-Dolly from the first moment
of their meeting.

"Are you one of Doctor Twist's assistants?" asked Dolly.

"I am his only assistant, miss. Sergeant-Major Flannery is the name."

"Oh? Then you look after the patients here?"

"That's right, miss."

"Then it is you who will be in charge of my poor brother?" She uttered
a little sigh, and there came into her hazel eyes a look of pain.

"Your brother, miss? Are you the lady...."

"Did Doctor Twist tell you about my brother?"

"Yes, miss. The fellow who's been...."

He paused, appalled. Only by a hair's-breadth had he stopped himself
from using in the presence of this divine creature the hideous
expression "mopping it up a bit."

"Yes," said Dolly. "I see you know about it."

"All I know about it, miss," said Sergeant-Major Flannery, "is that the
doctor had me into the orderly room just now and said he was expecting
a young lady to arrive with her brother, who needed attention. He said
I wasn't to be surprised if I found myself called for to lend a hand in
a roughhouse, because this bloke--because this patient was apt to get
verlent."

"My brother does get very violent," sighed Dolly. "I only hope he won't
do you any injury."

Sergeant-Major Flannery twitched his banana-like fingers and inflated
his powerful chest. He smiled a complacent smile.

"He won't do _me_ an injury, miss. I've had experience with...." Again
he stopped just in time, on the very verge of shocking his companion's
ears with the ghastly noun "souses" ... "with these sort of nervous
cases," he amended. "Besides, the doctor says he's going to give the
gentleman a little sleeping draught, which'll keep him as you might say
'armless till he wakes up and finds himself under lock and key."

"I see. Yes, that's a very good idea."

"No sense in troubling trouble till trouble troubles you, as the saying
is, miss," agreed the Sergeant-Major. "If you can do a thing in a nice,
easy, tactful manner without verlence, then why use verlence? Has the
gentleman been this way long, miss?"

"Four years."

"You ought to have had him in a home sooner."

"I have put him into dozens of homes. But he always gets out. That's
why I'm so worried."

"He won't get out of Healthward Ho, miss."

"He's very clever."

It was on the tip of Sergeant-Major Flannery's tongue to point out
that other people were clever, too, but he refrained, not so much from
modesty as because at this moment he swallowed some sort of insect.
When he had finished coughing he found that his companion had passed on
to another aspect of the matter.

"I left him alone with Doctor Twist. I wonder if that was safe."

"Quite safe, miss," the Sergeant-Major assured her. "You can see the
window's open and the room's on the ground floor. If there's trouble
and the gentleman starts any verlence, all the doctor's got to do is to
shout for 'elp and I'll get to the spot at the double and climb in and
lend a hand."

His visitor regarded him with a shy admiration.

"It's such a relief to feel that there's someone like you here, Mr.
Flannery. I'm sure you are wonderful in any kind of an emergency."

"People have said so, miss," replied the Sergeant-Major, stroking his
moustache and smiling another quiet smile.

"But what's worrying me is what's going to happen when my brother comes
to after the sleeping draught and finds that he is locked up. That's
what I meant just now when I said he was so clever. The last place he
was in they promised to see that he stayed there, but he talked them
into letting him out. He said he belonged to some big family in the
neighbourhood and had been shut up by mistake."

"He won't get round _me_ that way, miss."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure, miss. If there's one thing you get used to in a place like
this, it's artfulness. You wouldn't believe how artful some of these
gentlemen can be. Only yesterday that Admiral Sir Rigby-Rudd toppled
over in my presence after doing his bending and stretching exercises
and said he felt faint and he was afraid it was his heart and would
I go and get him a drop of brandy. Anything like the way he carried
on when I just poured half a bucketful of cold water down his back
instead, you never heard in your life. I'm on the watch all the time, I
can tell you, miss. I wouldn't trust my own mother if she was in here,
taking the cure. And it's no use arguing with them and pointing out to
them that they came here voluntarily of their own free will, and are
paying big money to be exercised and kept away from wines, spirits, and
rich food. They just spend their whole time thinking up ways of being
artful."

"Do they ever try to bribe you?"

"No, miss," said Mr. Flannery, a little wistfully. "I suppose they take
a look at me and think--and see that I'm not the sort of fellow that
would take bribes."

"My brother is sure to offer you money to let him go."

"How much--how much good," said Sergeant-Major Flannery carefully,
"does he think that's going to do him?"

"You wouldn't take it, would you?"

"Who, me, miss? Take money to betray my trust, if you understand the
expression?"

"Whatever he offers you, I will double. You see, it's so very important
that he is kept here, where he will be safe from temptation, Mr.
Flannery," said Dolly, timidly, "I wish you would accept this."

The Sergeant-Major felt a quickening of the spirit as he gazed upon the
rustling piece of paper in her hand.

"No, no, miss," he said, taking it. "It really isn't necessary."

"I know. But I would rather you had it. You see, I'm afraid my brother
may give you a lot of trouble."

"Trouble's what I'm here for, miss," said Mr. Flannery bravely.
"Trouble's what I draw my salary for. Besides, he can't give much
trouble when he's under lock and key, as the saying is. Don't you
worry, miss. We're going to make this brother of yours a different man.
We...."

"Oh!" cried Dolly.

A head and shoulders had shot suddenly out of the study window--the
head and shoulders of Doctor Twist. The voice of Doctor Twist sounded
sharply above the droning of bees and insects.

"Flannery!"

"On the spot, sir."

"Come here, Flannery. I want you."

"You stay here, miss," counselled Sergeant-Major Flannery paternally.
"There may be verlence."


                                   V

There were, however, when Dolly made her way to the study some five
minutes later, no signs of anything of an exciting and boisterous
nature having occurred recently in the room. The table was unbroken,
the carpet unruffled. The chairs stood in their places, and not even a
picture glass had been cracked. It was evident that the operations had
proceeded according to plan, and that matters had been carried through
in what Sergeant-Major Flannery would have termed a nice, easy, tactful
manner.

"Everything jake?" inquired Dolly.

"Uh-hum," said Chimp, speaking, however, in a voice that quavered a
little.

Mr. Twist was the only object in the room that looked in any way
disturbed. He had turned an odd greenish colour, and from time to time
he swallowed uneasily. Although he had spent a lifetime outside the
law, Chimp Twist was essentially a man of peace and accustomed to look
askance at any by-product of his profession that seemed to him to come
under the heading of rough stuff. This doping of respectable visitors,
he considered, was distinctly so to be classified; and only Mr.
Molloy's urgency over the telephone wire had persuaded him to the task.
He was nervous and apprehensive, in a condition to start at sudden
noises.

"What happened?"

"Well, I did what Soapy said. After you left us the guy and I talked
back and forth for a while, and then I agreed to knock a bit off the
old man's bill, and then I said 'How about a little drink?' and then we
have a little drink, and then I slip the stuff you gave me in while he
wasn't looking. It didn't seem like it was going to act at first."

"It don't. It takes a little time. You don't feel nothing till you
jerk your head or move yourself, and then it's like as if somebody has
beaned you one with an iron girder or something. So they tell me," said
Dolly.

"I guess he must have jerked his head, then. Because all of a sudden
he went down and out," Chimp gulped. "You--you don't think he's ... I
mean, you're sure this stuff...?"

Dolly had nothing but contempt for these masculine tremors.

"Of course. Do you suppose I go about the place croaking people? He's
all right."

"Well, he didn't look it. If I'd been a life-insurance company I'd have
paid up on him without a yip."

"He'll wake up with a headache in a little while, but outside of that
he'll be as well as he ever was. Where have you been all your life that
you don't know how kayo drops act?"

"I've never had occasion to be connected with none of this raw work
before," said Chimp virtuously. "If you'd of seen him when he slumped
down on the table, you wouldn't be feeling so good yourself, maybe. If
ever I saw a guy that looked like he was qualified to step straight
into a coffin, he was him."

"Aw, be yourself, Chimp!"

"I'm being myself all right, all right."

"Well, then, for Pete's sake, be somebody else. Pull yourself together,
why can't you. Have a drink."

"Ah!" said Mr. Twist, struck with the idea.

His hand was still shaking, but he accomplished the delicate task of
mixing a whisky and soda without disaster.

"What did you with the remains?" asked Dolly, interested.

Mr. Twist, who had been raising the glass to his lips, lowered it
again. He disapproved of levity of speech at such a moment.

"Would you kindly not call him 'the remains,'" he begged. "It's all
very well for you to be so easy about it all and to pull this stuff
about him doing nothing but wake up with a headache, but what I'm
asking myself is, will he wake up at all?"

"Oh, cut it out! Sure, he'll wake up."

"But will it be in this world?"

"You drink that up, you poor dumb-bell, and then fix yourself another,"
advised Dolly. "And make it a bit stronger next time. You seem to need
it."

Mr. Twist did as directed, and found the treatment beneficial.

"You've nothing to grumble at," Dolly proceeded, still looking on the
bright side. "What with all this excitement and all, you seem to have
lost that cold of yours."

"That's right," said Chimp, impressed. "It does seem to have got a
whole lot better."

"Pity you couldn't have got rid of it a little earlier. Then we
wouldn't have had all this trouble. From what I can make of it, you
seem to have roused the house by sneezing your head off, and a bunch of
the help come and stood looking over the banisters at you."

Chimp tottered. "You don't mean somebody saw me last night?"

"Sure they saw you. Didn't Soapy tell you that over the wire?"

"I could hardly make out all Soapy was saying over the wire. Say! What
are we going to do?"

"Don't you worry. We've done it. The only difficult part is over. Now
that we've fixed the remains...."

"Will you please...!"

"Well, call him what you like. Now that we've fixed that guy the
thing's simple. By the way, what did you do with him?"

"Flannery took him upstairs."

"Where to?"

"There's a room on the top floor. Must have been a nursery or
something, I guess. Anyway, there's bars to the windows."

"How's the door?"

"Good solid oak. You've got to hand it to the guys who built these old
English houses. They knew their groceries. When they spit on their
hands and set to work to make a door, they made one. You couldn't push
that door down, not if you was an elephant."

"Well, that's all right, then. Now, listen, Chimp. Here's the low-down.
We...." She broke off. "What's that?"

"What's what?" asked Mr. Twist, starting violently.

"I thought I heard someone outside in the corridor. Go and look."

With an infinite caution born of alarm, Mr. Twist crept across the
floor, reached the door and flung it open. The passage was empty. He
looked up and down it, and Dolly, whose fingers had hovered for an
instant over the glass which he had left on the table, sat back with an
air of content.

"My mistake," she said. "I thought I heard something."

Chimp returned to the table. He was still much perturbed.

"I wish I'd never gone into this thing," he said, with a sudden gush of
self-pity. "I felt all along, what with seeing that magpie and the new
moon through glass...."

"Now, listen!" said Dolly vigorously. "Considering you've stood Soapy
and me up for practically all there is in this thing except a little
small change, I'll ask you kindly, if you don't mind, not to stand
there beefing and expecting me to hold your hand and pat you on the
head and be a second mother to you. You came into this business because
you wanted it. You're getting sixty-five per cent. of the gross. So
what's biting you? You're all right so far."

It was in Mr. Twist's mind to inquire of his companion precisely what
she meant by this expression, but more urgent matter claimed his
attention. More even than the exact interpretation of the phrase "so
far," he wished to know what the next move was.

"What happens now?" he asked.

"We go back to Rudge."

"And collect the stuff?"

"Yes. And then make our getaway."

No programme could have outlined more admirably Mr. Twist's own
desires. The mere contemplation of it heartened him. He snatched
his glass from the table and drained it with a gesture almost
swash-buckling.

"Soapy will have doped the old man by this time, eh?"

"That's right."

"But suppose he hasn't been able to?" said Mr. Twist with a return of
his old nervousness. "Suppose he hasn't had an opportunity?"

"You can always find an opportunity of doping people. You ought to know
that."

The implied compliment pleased Chimp.

"That's right," he chuckled.

He nodded his head complacently. And immediately something which may
have been an iron girder or possibly the ceiling and the upper parts of
the house seemed to strike him on the base of the skull. He had been
standing by the table, and now, crumpling at the knees, he slid gently
down to the floor. Dolly, regarding him, recognized instantly what he
had meant just now when he had spoken of John appearing like a total
loss to his life-insurance company. The best you could have said of
Alexander Twist at this moment was that he looked peaceful. She drew in
her breath a little sharply, and then, being a woman at heart, took a
cushion from the armchair and placed it beneath his head.

Only then did she go to the telephone and in a gentle voice ask the
operator to connect her with Rudge Hall.

"Soapy?"

"Hello!"

The promptitude with which the summons of the bell had been answered
brought a smile of approval to her lips. Soapy, she felt, must have
been sitting with his head on the receiver.

"Listen, sweetie."

"I'm listening, pettie!"

"Everything's set."

"Have you fixed that guy?"

"Sure, precious. And Chimp, too."

"How's that? Chimp?"

"Sure. We don't want Chimp around, do we, with that
sixty-five--thirty-five stuff of his? I just slipped a couple of drops
into his highball and he's gone off as peaceful as a lamb. Say, wait
a minute," she added, as the wire hummed with Mr. Molloy's low-voiced
congratulations. "Hello!" she said, returning.

"What were you doing, honey? Did you hear somebody?"

"No. I caught sight of a bunch of lilies in a vase, and I just slipped
across and put one of them in Chimp's hand. Made it seem more sort of
natural. Now listen, Soapy. Everything's clear for you at your end
now, so go right ahead and clean up. I'm going to beat it in that guy
Carroll's runabout, and I haven't much time, so don't start talking
about the weather or nothing. I'm going to London, to the Belvidere.
You collect the stuff and meet me there. Is that all straight?"

"But, pettie!"

"Now what?"

"How am I to get the stuff away?"

"For goodness' sake! You can drive a car, can't you? Old Carmody's car
was outside the stable yard when I left. I guess it's there still. Get
the stuff and then go and tell the chauffeur that old Carmody wants to
see him. Then, when he's gone, climb in and drive to Birmingham. Leave
the car outside the station and take a train. That's simple enough,
isn't it?"

There was a long pause. Admiration seemed to have deprived Mr. Molloy
of speech.

"Honey," he said at length, in a hushed voice, "when it comes to the
real smooth stuff you're there every time. Let me just tell you...."

"All right, baby," said Dolly. "Save it till later. I'm in a hurry."




                               CHAPTER X


                                   I

Soapy Molloy replaced the receiver, and came out of the telephone
cupboard glowing with the resolve to go right ahead and clean up as his
helpmeet had directed. Like all good husbands, he felt that his wife
was an example and an inspiration to him. Mopping his fine forehead,
for it had been warm in the cupboard with the door shut, he stood for a
while and mused, sketching out in his mind a plan of campaign.

The prudent man, before embarking on any enterprise which may at a
moment's notice necessitate his skipping away from a given spot like a
scalded cat, will always begin by preparing his lines of retreat. Mr.
Molloy's first act was to go to the stable yard in order to ascertain
with his own eyes that the Dex-Mayo was still there.

It was. It stood out on the gravel, simply waiting for someone to
spring to its wheel and be off.

So far, so good. But how far actually was it? The really difficult part
of the operations, Mr. Molloy could not but recognize, still lay before
him. The knock-out drops nestled in his waistcoat pocket all ready for
use, but in order to bring about the happy ending it was necessary for
him, like some conjuror doing a trick, to transfer them thence to the
interior of Mr. Lester Carmody. And little by little, chilling his
enthusiasm, there crept upon Soapy the realization that he had not a
notion how the deuce this was to be done.

The whole question of administering knock-out drops to a fellow
creature is a very delicate and complex one. So much depends on the
co-operation of the party of the second part. Before you can get
anything in the nature of action, your victim must first be induced to
start drinking something. At Healthward Ho, Soapy had gathered from the
recent telephone conversation, no obstacles had arisen. The thing had
been, apparently, from the start a sort of jolly carousal. But at Rudge
Hall, it was plain, matters were not going to be nearly so simple.

When you are a guest in a man's house, you cannot very well go about
thrusting drinks on your host at half-past eleven in the morning.
Probably Mr. Carmody would not think of taking liquid refreshment till
lunchtime, and then there would be a butler in and out of the room all
the while. Besides, lunch would not be for another two hours or more,
and the whole essence of this enterprise was that it should be put
through swiftly and at once.

Mr. Molloy groaned in spirit. He wandered forth into the garden,
turning the problem over in his mind with growing desperation, and had
just come to the conclusion that he was mentally unequal to it, when,
reaching the low wall that bordered the moat, he saw a sight which sent
the blood coursing joyously through his veins once more--a sight which
made the world a thing of sunshine and bird song again.

Out in the middle of the moat lay the punt. In the punt sat Mr.
Carmody. And in Mr. Carmody's hand was a fishing rod.

Æsthetically considered, wearing as he did a pink shirt and a slouch
hat which should long ago have been given to the deserving poor, Mr.
Carmody was not much of a spectacle, but Soapy, eyeing him, felt that
he had never beheld anything lovelier. He was not a fisherman himself,
but he knew all about fishermen. They became, he was aware, when
engaged on their favourite pursuit, virtually monomaniacs. Earthquakes
might occur in their immediate neighbourhood, dynasties fall and
pestilences ravage the land, but they would just go on fishing. As long
as the bait held out, Lester Carmody, sitting in that punt, was for all
essential purposes as good as if he had been crammed to the brim of the
finest knock-out drops. It was as though he were in another world.

Exhilaration filled Soapy like a tonic.

"Any luck?" he shouted.

"Wah, wah, wah," replied Mr. Carmody inaudibly.

"Stick to it," cried Soapy. "Atta-boy!"

With an encouraging wave of the hand he hurried back to the house.
The problem which a moment before had seemed to defy solution had now
become so simple and easy that a child could have negotiated it--any
child, that is to say, capable of holding a hatchet and endowed with
sufficient strength to break a cupboard door with it.

"I'm telling the birds, telling the bees," sang Soapy gaily, charging
into the hall, "Telling the flowers, telling the trees how I love
you...."

"Sir?" said Sturgis respectfully, suddenly becoming manifest out of the
infinite.

Soapy gazed at the butler blankly, his wild wood-notes dying away in a
guttural gurgle. Apart from the embarrassment which always comes upon
a man when caught singing, he was feeling, as Sturgis himself would
have put it, stottled. A moment before, the place had been completely
free from butlers, and where this one could have come from was more
than he could understand. Rudge Hall's old retainer did not look the
sort of man who would pop up through traps, but there seemed no other
explanation of his presence.

And then, close to the cupboard door, Soapy espied another door,
covered with green baize. This, evidently, was the Sturgis bolt-hole.

"Nothing," he said.

"I thought you called, sir."

"No."

"Lovely day, sir."

"Beautiful," said Soapy.

He gazed bulgily at this inconvenient old fossil. Once more, shadows
had fallen about his world, and he was brooding again on the deep gulf
that is fixed between artistic conception and detail work.

The broad, artistic conception of breaking open the cupboard door and
getting away with the swag while Mr. Carmody, anchored out on the moat,
dabbled for bream or dibbled for chub or sniggled for eels or whatever
weak-minded thing it is that fishermen do when left to themselves in
the middle of a sheet of water, was magnificent. It was bold, dashing,
big in every sense of the word. Only when you came to inspect it in
detail did it occur to you that it might also be a little noisy.

That was the fatal flaw--the noise. The more Soapy examined the scheme,
the more clearly did he see that it could not be carried through in
even comparative quiet. And the very first blow of the hammer or axe or
chisel selected for the operation must inevitably bring Methuselah's
little brother popping through that green baize door, full of inquiries.

"Hell!" said Soapy.

"Sir?"

"Nothing," said Soapy. "I was just thinking."

He continued to think, and to such effect that before long he had begun
to see daylight. There is no doubt that in time of stress the human
mind has an odd tendency to take off its coat and roll up its sleeves
and generally spread itself in a spasm of unwonted energy. Probably if
this thing had been put up to Mr. Molloy as an academic problem over
the nuts and wine after dinner, he would have had to confess himself
baffled. Now, however, with such vital issues at stake, it took him
but a few minutes to reach the conclusion that what he required, as he
could not break open a cupboard door in silence, was some plausible
reason for making a noise.

He followed up this line of thought. A noise of smashing wood. In what
branch of human activity may a man smash wood blamelessly? The answer
is simple. When he is doing carpentering. What sort of carpentering?
Why, making something. What? Oh, anything. Yes, but what? Well, say for
example a rabbit hutch. But why a rabbit hutch? Well, a man might very
easily have a daughter who, in her girlish, impulsive way, had decided
to keep pet rabbits, mightn't he? There actually were pet rabbits on
the Rudge Hall estate, weren't there? Certainly there were. Soapy had
seen them down at one of the lodges.

The thing began to look good. It only remained to ascertain whether
Sturgis was the right recipient for this kind of statement. The world
may be divided broadly into two classes--men who will believe you when
you suddenly inform them at half-past eleven on a summer morning that
you propose to start making rabbit hutches, and men who will not.
Sturgis looked as if he belonged to the former and far more likeable
class. He looked, indeed, like a man who would believe anything.

"Say!" said Soapy.

"Sir?"

"My daughter wants me to make her a rabbit hutch."

"Indeed, sir?"

Soapy felt relieved. There had been no incredulity in the other's
gaze--on the contrary, something that looked very much like a sort of
senile enthusiasm. He had the air of a butler who had heard good news
from home.

"Have you got such a thing as a packing case or a sugar box or
something like that? And a hatchet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then fetch them along."

"Very good, sir."

The butler disappeared through his green baize door, and Soapy, to fill
in the time of waiting, examined the cupboard. It appeared to be a
very ordinary sort of cupboard, the kind that a resolute man can open
with one well-directed blow. Soapy felt complacent. Though primarily a
thinker, it pleased him to feel that he could be the man of action when
the occasion called.

There was a noise of bumping without. Sturgis reappeared, packing case
in one hand, hatchet in the other, looking like Noah taking ship's
stores aboard the Ark.

"Here they are, sir."

"Thanks."

"I used to keep roberts when I was a lad, sir," said the butler. "Oh,
dear, yes. Many's the robert I've made a pet of in my time. Roberts and
white mice, those were what I was fondest of. And newts in a little
aquarium."

He leaned easily against the wall, beaming, and Soapy, with deep
concern, became aware that the Last of the Great Victorians proposed to
make this thing a social gathering. He appeared to be regarding Soapy
as the nucleus of a salon.

"Don't let me keep you," said Soapy.

"You aren't keeping me, sir," the butler assured him. "Oh, no, sir, you
aren't keeping me. I've done my silver. It will be a pleasure to watch
you, sir. Quite likely I can give you a hint or two if you've never
made a robert hutch before. Many's the hutch I've made in my time. As a
lad, I was very handy at that sort of thing."

A dull despair settled upon Soapy. It was plain to him now that he had
unwittingly delivered himself over into the clutches of a bore who
had probably been pining away for someone on whom to pour out his
wealth of stored-up conversation. Words had begun to flutter out of
this butler like bats out of a barn. He had become a sort of human
Topical Talk on rabbits. He was speaking of rabbits he had known in
his hot youth--their manners, customs, and the amount of lettuce they
had consumed per diem. To a man interested in rabbits but too lazy to
look the subject up in the encyclopædia the narrative would have been
enthralling. It induced in Soapy a feverishness that touched the skirts
of homicidal mania. The thought came into his mind that there are
other uses to which a hatchet may be put besides the making of rabbit
hutches. England trembled on the verge of being short one butler.

Sturgis had now become involved in a long story of his early manhood,
and even had Soapy been less distrait he might have found it difficult
to enjoy it to the full. It was about an acquaintance of his who had
kept rabbits, and it suffered in lucidity from his unfortunate habit
of pronouncing rabbits "roberts," combined with the fact that by a
singular coincidence the acquaintance had been a Mr. Roberts. Roberts,
it seemed, had been deeply attached to roberts. In fact, his practice
of keeping roberts in his bedroom had led to trouble with Mrs. Roberts,
and in the end Mrs. Roberts had drowned the roberts in the pond and
Roberts, who thought the world of his roberts and not quite so highly
of Mrs. Roberts, had never forgiven her.

Here Sturgis paused, apparently for comment.

"Is that so?" said Soapy, breathing heavily.

"Yes, sir."

"In the pond?"

"In the pond, sir."

Like some Open Sesame, the word suddenly touched a chord in Soapy's
mind.

"Say, listen," he said. "All the while we've been talking I was
forgetting that Mr. Carmody is out there on the pond."

"The moat, sir?"

"Call it what you like. Anyway, he's there, fishing, and he told me to
tell you to take him out something to drink."

Immediately, Sturgis, the lecturer, with a change almost startling in
its abruptness, became Sturgis, the butler, once more. The fanatic
rabbit-gleam died out of his eyes.

"Very good, sir."

"I should hurry. His tongue was hanging out when I left him."

For an instant the butler wavered. The words had recalled to his mind a
lop-eared doe which he had once owned, whose habit of putting out its
tongue and gasping had been the cause of some concern to him in the
late 'seventies. But he recovered himself. Registering a mental resolve
to seek out this new-made friend of his later and put the complete
facts before him, he passed through the green baize door.

Soapy, alone at last, did not delay. With all the pent up energy which
had been accumulating within him during a quarter of an hour which had
seemed a lifetime, he swung the hatchet and brought it down. The panel
splintered. The lock snapped. The door swung open.

There was an electric switch inside the cupboard. He pressed it down
and was able to see clearly. And, having seen clearly, he drew back,
his lips trembling with half-spoken words of the regrettable kind which
a man picks up in the course of a lifetime spent in the less refined
social circles of New York, Philadelphia, and Chicago.

The cupboard contained an old raincoat, two hats, a rusty golf club,
six croquet balls, a pamphlet on stock-breeding, three umbrellas, a
copy of the _Parish Magazine_ for the preceding November, a shoe, a
mouse, and a smell of apples, but no suitcase.

That much Soapy had been able to see in the first awful, disintegrating
instant.

No bag, box, portmanteau, or suitcase of any kind or description
whatsoever.


                                  II

Hope does not readily desert the human breast. After the first numbing
impact of any shock, we most of us have a tendency to try to persuade
ourselves that things may not be so bad as they seem. Some explanation,
we feel, will be forthcoming shortly, putting the whole matter in a
different light. And so, after a few moments during which he stood
petrified, muttering some of the comments which on the face of it the
situation seemed to demand, Soapy cheered up a little.

He had had, he reflected, no opportunity of private speech with his
host this morning. If Mr. Carmody had decided to change his plans and
deposit the suitcase in some other hiding place he might have done so
in quite good faith without Soapy's knowledge. For all he knew, in
mentally labelling Mr. Carmody as a fat, pop-eyed, crooked, swindling,
pie-faced, double-crossing Judas, he might be doing him an injustice.
Feeling calmer, though still anxious, he left the house and started
toward the moat.

Half-way down the garden, he encountered Sturgis, returning with an
empty tray.

"You must have misunderstood Mr. Carmody, sir," said the butler,
genially, as one rabbit fancier to another. "He says he did not ask for
any drink. But he came ashore and had it. If you're looking for him,
you will find him in the boathouse."

And in the boathouse Mr. Carmody was, lolling at his ease on the
cushions of the punt, sipping the contents of a long glass.

"Hullo," said Mr. Carmody. "There you are."

Soapy descended the steps. What he had to say was not the kind of thing
a prudent man shouts at long range.

"Say!" said Soapy in a cautious undertone. "I've been trying to get a
word with you all the morning. But that darned policeman was around all
the time."

"Something on your mind?" said Mr. Carmody affably. "I've caught two
perch, a bream, and a grayling," he added, finishing the contents of
his glass with a good deal of relish.

Such was the condition of Soapy's nervous system that he very nearly
damned the perch, the bream, and the grayling, in the order named. But
he checked himself in time. If ever, he felt, there was a moment when
diplomacy was needed, this was it.

"Listen," he said, "I've been thinking."

"Yes?"

"I've been wondering if, after all, that closet you were going to put
the stuff in is a safe place. Somebody might be apt to take a look in
it. Maybe," said Soapy, tensely, "that occurred to you?"

"What makes you think that?"

"It just crossed my mind."

"Oh? I thought perhaps you might have been having a look in that
cupboard yourself."

Soapy moistened his lips, which had become uncomfortably dry.

"But you locked it, surely?" he said.

"Yes, I locked it," said Mr. Carmody. "But it struck me that after you
had got the butler out of the way by telling him to bring me a drink,
you might have thought of breaking the door open."

In the silence which followed this devastating remark there suddenly
made itself heard an odd, gurgling noise like a leaking cistern, and
Soapy, gazing at his host, was shocked to observe that he had given
himself up to an apoplectic spasm of laughter. Mr. Carmody's rotund
body was quivering like a jelly. His eyes were closed, and he was
rocking himself to and fro. And from his lips proceeded those hideous
sounds of mirth.

The hope which until this moment had been sustaining Soapy had never
been a strong, robust hope. From birth it had been an invalid. And now,
as he listened to this laughter, the poor, sickly thing coughed quietly
and died.

"Oh dear!" said Mr. Carmody, recovering. "Very funny. Very funny."

"You think it's funny, do you?" said Soapy.

"I do," said Mr. Carmody sincerely. "I wish I could have seen your face
when you looked in that cupboard."

Soapy had nothing to say. He was beaten, crushed, routed, and he knew
it. He stared out hopelessly on a bleak world. Outside the boathouse
the sun was still shining, but not for Soapy.

"I've seen through you all along, my man," proceeded Mr. Carmody, with
ungenerous triumph. "Not from the very beginning, perhaps, because I
really did suppose for a while that you were what you professed to be.
The first thing that made me suspicious was when I cabled over to New
York to make inquiries about a well-known financier named Thomas G.
Molloy and was informed that no such person existed."

Soapy did not speak. The bitterness of his meditations precluded words.
His eyes were fixed on the trees and flowers on the other side of the
water, and he was disliking these very much. Nature had done its best
for the scene, and he thought Nature a washout.

"And then," proceeded Mr. Carmody, "I listened outside the study window
while you and your friends were having your little discussion. And
I heard all I wanted to hear. Next time you have one of these board
meetings of yours, Mr. Molloy, I suggest that you close the window and
lower your voices."

"Yeah?" said Soapy.

It was not, he forced himself to admit, much of a retort, but it was
the best he could think of. He was in the depths, and men who are in
the depths seldom excel in the matter of rapier-like repartee.

"I thought the matter over, and decided that my best plan was to allow
matters to proceed. I was disappointed, of course, to discover that
that cheque of yours for a million or two million or whatever it was
would not be coming my way. But," said Mr. Carmody philosophically,
"there is always the insurance money. It should amount to a nice little
sum. Not what a man like you, accustomed to big transactions with Mr.
Schwab and Pierpont Morgan, would call much, of course, but quite
satisfactory to me."

"You think so?" said Soapy, goaded to speech. "You think you're going
to clean up on the insurance?"

"I do."

"Then, say, listen, let me tell you something. The insurance company
is going to send a fellow down to inquire, isn't it? Well, what's to
prevent me spilling the beans?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What's to keep me from telling him the burglary was a put-up job?"

Mr. Carmody smiled tranquilly.

"Your good sense, I should imagine. How could you make such a story
credible without involving yourself in more unpleasantness than I
should imagine you would desire? I think I shall be able to rely on you
for sympathetic silence, Mr. Molloy."

"Yeah?"

"I think so."

And Soapy, reflecting, thought so, too. For the process of
bean-spilling to be enjoyable, he realized, the conditions have to be
right.

"I am offering a little reward," said Mr. Carmody, gently urging the
punt out into the open, "just to make everything seem more natural.
One thousand pounds is the sum I am proposing to give for the recovery
of this stolen property. You had better try for that. Well, I must not
keep you here all the morning, chattering away like this. No doubt you
have much to do."

The punt floated out into the sunshine, and the roof of the boathouse
hid this fat, conscienceless man from Soapy's eyes. From somewhere out
in the great open spaces beyond came the sound of a paddle, wielded
with a care-free joyousness. Whatever might be his guest's state of
mind, Mr. Carmody was plainly in the pink.

Soapy climbed the steps listlessly. The interview had left him weak
and shaken. He brooded dully on this revelation of the inky depths of
Lester Carmody's soul. It seemed to him that if this was what England's
upper classes (who ought to be setting an example) were like, Great
Britain could not hope to continue much longer as a first-class power,
and it gave him in his anguish a little satisfaction to remember that
in years gone by his ancestors had thrown off Britain's yoke. Beyond
burning his eyebrows one Fourth of July, when a boy, with a maroon
that exploded prematurely, he had never thought much about this affair
before, but now he was conscious of a glow of patriotic fervour. If
General Washington had been present at that moment Soapy would have
shaken hands with him.

Soapy wandered aimlessly through the sunlit garden. The little spurt
of consolation caused by the reflection that some hundred and fifty
years ago the United States of America had severed relations with a
country which was to produce a man like Lester Carmody had long since
ebbed away, leaving emptiness behind it. He was feeling very low, and
in urgent need of one of those largely advertised tonics which claim to
relieve Anæmia, Brain-Fag, Lassitude, Anxiety, Palpitations, Faintness,
Melancholia, Exhaustion, Neurasthenia, Muscular Limpness, and
Depression of Spirits. For he had got them all, especially brain-fag
and melancholia; and the sudden appearance of Sturgis, fluttering
toward him down the gravel path, provided nothing in the nature of a
cure.

He felt that he had had all he wanted of the butler's conversation.
Even of the most stimulating society enough is enough, and to Soapy
about half a minute of Sturgis seemed a good medium dose for an adult.
He would have fled, but there was nowhere to go. He remained where he
was, making his expression as forbidding as possible. A motion-picture
director could have read that expression like a book. Soapy was
registering deep disinclination to talk about rabbits.

But for the moment, it appeared, Sturgis had put rabbits on one side.
Other matters occupied his mind.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but have you seen Mr. John?"

"Mr. who?"

"Mr. John, sir."

So deep was Soapy's preoccupation that for a moment the name conveyed
nothing to him.

"Mr. Carmody's nephew, sir. Mr. Carroll."

"Oh? Yes, he went off in his car with my daughter."

"Will he be gone long, do you think, sir?"

Soapy could answer that one.

"Yes," he said. "He won't be back for some time."

"You see, when I took Mr. Carmody his drink, sir, he told me to tell
Bolt, the chauffeur, to give me the ticket."

"What ticket?" asked Soapy wearily.

The butler was only too glad to reply. He had feared that this talk of
theirs might be about to end all too quickly, and these explanations
helped to prolong it. And, now that he knew that there was no need to
go on searching for John, his time was his own again.

"It was a ticket for a bag which Mr. Carmody sent Bolt to leave at the
cloak room at Shrub Hill station, in Worcester, this morning, sir. I
now ascertain from Bolt that he gave it to Mr. John to give to Mr.
Carmody."

"What!" cried Soapy.

"And Mr. John has apparently gone off without giving it to him.
However, no doubt it is quite safe. Did you make satisfactory progress
with the hutch, sir?"

"Eh?"

"The robert hutch, sir."

"What?"

A look of concern came into Sturgis's face. His companion's manner was
strange.

"Is anything the matter, sir?"

"Eh?"

"Shall I bring you something to drink, sir?"

Few men ever become so distrait that this particular question fails to
penetrate. Soapy nodded feverishly. Something to drink was precisely
what at this moment he felt he needed most. Moreover, the process of
fetching it would relieve him for a time, at least, of the society of
a butler who seemed to combine in equal proportions the outstanding
characteristics of a porous plaster and a gadfly.

"Yes," he replied.

"Very good, sir."


                                  III

Soapy's mind was in a whirl. He could almost feel the brains inside his
head heaving and tossing like an angry ocean. So that was what that
smooth old crook had done with the stuff--stored it away in a Left
Luggage office at a railway station! If circumstances had been such
as to permit of a more impartial and detached attitude of mind, Soapy
would have felt for Mr. Carmody's resource and ingenuity nothing but
admiration. A Left Luggage office was an ideal place in which to store
stolen property, as good as the innermost recesses of some safe deposit
company's deepest vault.

But, numerous as were the emotions surging in his bosom, admiration was
not one of them. For a while he gave himself up almost entirely to that
saddest of mental exercises, the brooding on what might have been. If
only he had known that John had the ticket...!

But he was a practical man. It was not his way to waste time torturing
himself with thoughts of past failures. The future claimed his
attention.

What to do?

All, he perceived, was not yet lost. It would be absurd to pretend
that things were shaping themselves ideally, but disaster might still
be retrieved. It would be embarrassing, no doubt, to meet Chimp Twist
after what had occurred, but a man who would win to wealth must learn
to put up with embarrassments. The only possible next move was to go
over to Healthward Ho, reveal to Chimp what had occurred, and with his
co-operation recover the ticket from John.

Soapy brightened. Another possibility had occurred to him. If he were
to reach Healthward Ho with the minimum of delay, it might be that
he would find both Chimp and John still under the influence of those
admirable drops, in which case a man of his resource would surely be
able to insinuate himself into John's presence long enough to be able
to remove a Left Luggage ticket from his person.

But if 'twere done, then, 'twere well 'twere done quickly. What he
needed was the Dex-Mayo. And the Dex-Mayo was standing outside the
stable yard, waiting for him. He became a thing of dash and activity.
For many years he had almost given up the exercise of running, but he
ran now like the lissom athlete he had been in his early twenties.

And as he came panting round the back of the house the first thing he
saw was the tail end of the car disappearing into the stable yard.

"Hi!" shouted Soapy, using for the purpose the last remains of his
breath.

The Dex-Mayo vanished. And Soapy, very nearly a spent force now,
arrived at the opening of the stable yard just in time to see Bolt, the
chauffeur, putting the key of the garage in his pocket after locking
the door.

Bolt was a thing of beauty. He gleamed in the sunshine. He was wearing
a new hat, his Sunday clothes, and a pair of yellow shoes that might
have been bits chipped off the sun itself. There was a carnation in his
buttonhole. He would have lent tone to a garden party at Buckingham
Palace.

He regarded Soapy with interest.

"Been having a little run, sir?"

"The car!" croaked Soapy.

"I've just put it away, sir. Mr. Carmody has given me the day off to
attend the wedding of the wife's niece over at Upton Snodsbury."

"I want the car."

"I've just put it away, sir," said Bolt, speaking more slowly and with
the manner of one explaining something to an untutored foreigner. "Mr.
Carmody has given me the day off. Mrs. Bolt's niece is being married
over at Upton Snodsbury. And she's got a lovely day for it," said the
chauffeur, glancing at the sky with something as near approval as a
chauffeur ever permits himself. "Happy the bride that the sun shines
on, they say. Not that I agree altogether with these old sayings. I
know that when I and Mrs. Bolt was married it rained the whole time
like cats and dogs, and we've been very happy. Very happy indeed
we've been, taking it by and large. I don't say we haven't had our
disagreements, but, taking it one way and another...."

It began to seem to Soapy that the staffs of English country houses
must be selected primarily for their powers of conversation. Every
domestic with whom he had come in contact in Rudge Hall so far had
at his disposal an apparently endless flow of lively small-talk.
The butler, if you let him, would gossip all day about rabbits,
and here was the chauffeur apparently settling down to dictate his
autobiography. And every moment was precious!

With a violent effort he contrived to take in a stock of breath.

"I want the car, to go to Healthward Ho. I can drive it."

The chauffeur's manner changed. Up till now he had been the cheery
clubman meeting an old friend in the smoking room and drawing him aside
for a long, intimate chat, but at this shocking suggestion he froze. He
gazed at Soapy with horrified incredulity.

"Drive the Dex-Mayo, sir?" he gasped.

"Over to Healthward Ho."

The crisis passed. Bolt swallowed convulsively and was himself once
more. One must be patient, he realized, with laymen. They do not
understand. When they come to a chauffeur and calmly propose that their
vile hands shall touch his sacred steering-wheel they are not trying to
be deliberately offensive. It is simply that they do not know.

"I'm afraid that wouldn't quite do, sir," he said with a faint,
reproving smile.

"Do you think I can't drive?"

"Not the Dex-Mayo you can't, sir." Bolt spoke a little curtly, for
he had been much moved and was still shaken. "Mr. Carmody don't like
nobody handling his car but me."

"But I must go over to Healthward Ho. It's important. Business."

The chauffeur reflected. Fundamentally he was a kindly man, who liked
to do his Good Deed daily.

"Well, sir, there's an old push-bike of mine lying in the stables. You
could take that if you liked. It's a little rusty, not having been used
for some time, but I dare say it would carry you as far as Healthward
Ho."

Soapy hesitated for a moment. The thought of a twenty-mile journey on
a machine which he had always supposed to have become obsolete during
his knickerbocker days made him quail a little. Then the thought of his
mission lent him strength. He was a desperate man, and desperate men
must do desperate things.

"Fetch it out!" he said.

Bolt fetched it out, and Soapy, looking upon it, quailed again.

"Is that it?" he said dully.

"That's it, sir," said the chauffeur.

There was only one adjective to describe this push-bike--the adjective
"blackguardly." It had that leering air, shared by some parrots and the
baser variety of cat, of having seen and been jauntily familiar with
all the sin of the world. It looked low and furtive. Its handle-bars
curved up instead of down, it had gaps in its spokes, and its pedals
were naked and unashamed. A sans-culotte of a bicycle. The sort of
bicycle that snaps at strangers.

"H'm!" said Soapy, ruminating.

"Yes," said Soapy, still ruminating.

Then he remembered again how imperative was the need of reaching
Healthward Ho somehow.

"All right," he said, with a shudder.

He climbed onto the machine, and after one majestic wobble passed
through the gates into the park, pedalling bravely. As he disappeared
from view, there floated back to Bolt, standing outside the stable
yard, a single, agonized "Ouch!"

Chauffeurs do not laugh, but they occasionally smile. Bolt smiled. He
had been bitten by that bicycle himself.


                                  IV

It was twenty minutes past one that butler Sturgis, dozing in his
pantry, was jerked from slumber by the sound of the telephone bell.
He had been hoping for an uninterrupted siesta, for he had had a
perplexing and trying morning. First, on top of the most sensational
night of his life, there had been all the nervous excitement of seeing
policemen roaming about the place. Then the American gentleman, Mr.
Molloy, had told him that Mr. Carmody wanted something to drink, and
Mr. Carmody had denied having ordered it. Then Mr. Molloy had asked
for a drink himself and had disappeared without waiting to get it.
And, finally, there was the matter of the cupboard. Mr. Molloy, after
starting to build a rabbit hutch, had apparently suspended operations
in favour of smashing in the door of the cupboard at the foot of the
stairs. It was all very puzzling to Sturgis, and, like most men of
settled habit, he found the process of being puzzled upsetting.

He went to the telephone, and a silver voice came to him over the wire.

"Is this the Hall? I want to speak to Mr. Carroll."

Sturgis recognized the voice.

"Miss Wyvern?"

"Yes. Is that Sturgis? I say, Sturgis, what has become of Mr. Carroll?
I was expecting him here half an hour ago. Have you seen him about
anywhere?"

"I have not seen him since shortly after breakfast, miss. I understand
that he went off in his little car with Miss Molloy."

"What!"

"Yes, miss. Some time ago."

There was silence at the other end of the wire.

"With Miss Molloy?" said the silver voice flatly.

"Yes, miss."

Silence again.

"Did he say when he would be back?"

"No, miss. But I understand that he was not proposing to return till
quite late in the day."

More silence.

"Oh?"

"Yes, miss. Any message I can give him?"

"No, thank you.... No...! No, it doesn't matter."

"Very good, miss."

Sturgis returned to his pantry. Pat, hanging up the receiver, went out
into her garden. Her face was set, and her lips compressed.

A snail crossed her path. She did not tread on it, for she had a kind
heart, but she gave it a look. It was a look which, had it reached
John, at whom it was really directed, would have scorched him.

She walked to the gate and stood leaning on it, staring straight before
her.




                              CHAPTER XI


                                   I

It had been the opinion of Dolly Molloy, expressed during her
conversation with Mr. Twist, that John, on awaking from his drugged
slumber, would find himself suffering a headache. The event proved her
a true prophet.

John, as became one who prized physical fitness, had been all his life
a rather unusually abstemious young man. But on certain rare occasions
dotted through the years of his sojourn at Oxford he had permitted
himself to relax. As for instance, the night of his twenty-first
birthday ... Boat-Race Night in his freshman year ... and, perhaps
most notable of all, the night of the university football match in
the season when he had first found a place in the Oxford team and
had helped to win one of the most spectacular games ever seen at
Twickenham. To celebrate each of these events he had lapsed from his
normal austerity, and every time had wakened on the morrow to a world
full of grayness and horror and sharp, shooting pains. But never had he
experienced anything to compare with what he was feeling now.

He was dimly conscious that strange things must have been happening to
him, and that these things had ended by depositing him on a strange
bed in a strange room, but he was at present in no condition to give
his situation any sustained thought. He merely lay perfectly still,
concentrating all his powers on the difficult task of keeping his head
from splitting in half.

When eventually, moving with exquisite care, he slid from the bed and
stood up, the first thing of which he became aware was that the sun
had sunk so considerably that it was now shining almost horizontally
through the barred window of the room. The air, moreover, which
accompanied its rays through the window had that cool fragrance which
indicates the approach of evening.

Poets have said some good things in their time about this particular
hour of the day, but to John on this occasion it brought no romantic
thoughts. He was merely bewildered. He had started out from Rudge not
long after eleven in the morning, and here it was late afternoon.

He moved to the window, feeling like Rip van Winkle. And presently the
sweet air, playing about his aching brow, restored him so considerably
that he was able to make deductions and arrive at the truth. The last
thing he could recollect was the man Twist handing him a tall glass. In
that glass, it now became evident, must have lurked the cause of all
his troubles. With an imbecile lack of the most elementary caution,
inexcusable in one who had been reading detective stories all his life,
he had allowed himself to be drugged.

It was a bitter thought, but he was not permitted to dwell on it for
long. Gradually, driving everything else from his mind, there stole
upon him the realization that unless he found something immediately
to slake the thirst which was burning him up he would perish of
spontaneous combustion. There was a jug on the wash stand, and,
tottering to it, he found it mercifully full to the brim. For the next
few moments he was occupied, to the exclusion of all other mundane
matters, with the task of seeing how much of the contents of this jug
he could swallow without pausing for breath.

This done, he was at leisure to look about him and examine the position
of affairs.

That he was a prisoner was proved directly he tested the handle of the
door. And, as further evidence, there were those bars on the window.
Whatever else might be doubtful, the one thing certain was that he
would have to remain in this room until somebody came along and let him
out.

His first reaction on making this discovery was a feeling of irritation
at the silliness of the whole business. Where was the sense of it? Did
this man Twist suppose that in the heart of peaceful Worcestershire he
could immure a fellow for ever in an upper room of his house?

And then his clouded intellect began to function more nimbly. Twist's
behaviour, he saw, was not so childish as he had supposed. It had been
imperative for him to gain time in order to get away with his loot;
and, John realized, he had most certainly gained it. And the longer
he remained in this room, the more complete would be the scoundrel's
triumph.

John became active. He went to the door again and examined it
carefully. A moment's inspection showed him that nothing was to be
hoped for from that quarter. A violent application of his shoulder did
not make the solid oak so much as quiver.

He tried the window. The bars were firm. Tugging had no effect on them.

There seemed to John only one course to pursue.

He shouted.

It was an injudicious move. The top of his head did not actually come
off, but it was a very near thing. By a sudden clutch at both temples
he managed to avert disaster in the nick of time, and tottered weakly
to the bed. There for some minutes he remained while unseen hands drove
red-hot rivets into his skull.

Presently the agony abated. He was able to rise again and make his way
feebly to the jug, which he had now come to look on as his only friend
in the world.

He had just finished his second non-stop draught when something
attracted his notice out of the corner of his eye, and he saw that in
the window beside him were framed a head and shoulders.

"Hoy!" observed the head in a voice like a lorry full of steel girders
passing over cobblestones. "I've brought you a cuppertea."


                                  II

The head was red in colour and ornamented half-way down by a large and
impressive moustache, waxed at the ends. The shoulders were broad and
square, the eyes prawn-like. The whole apparition, in short, one could
tell at a glance, was a sample or first instalment of the person of
a sergeant-major. And unless he had dropped from heaven--which, from
John's knowledge of sergeant-majors, seemed unlikely--the newcomer
must be standing on top of a ladder.

And such, indeed, was the case. Sergeant-Major Flannery, though no
acrobat, had nobly risked life and limb by climbing to this upper
window to see how his charge was getting on and to bring him a little
refreshment.

"Take your cuppertea, young fellow," said Mr. Flannery.

The hospitality had arrived too late. In the matter of tea-drinking
John was handicapped by the fact that he had just swallowed
approximately a third of a jug of water. He regretted to be compelled
to reject the contribution for lack of space. But as what he desired
most at the moment was human society and conversation, he advanced
eagerly to the window.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Flannery's my name, young fellow."

"How did I get here?"

"In that room?"

"Yes."

"I put you there."

"You did, did you?" said John. "Open this door at once, damn you!"

The Sergeant-Major shook his head.

"Language!" he said reprovingly. "Profanity won't do you no good, young
man. Cursing and swearing won't 'elp you. You just drink your cuppertea
and don't let's have no nonsense. If you'd made a 'abit in the past of
drinking more tea and less of the other thing, you wouldn't be in what
I may call your present predicament."

"Will you open this door?"

"No, sir. I will not open that door. There aren't going to be no doors
opened till your conduct and behaviour has been carefully examined in
the course of a day or so and we can be sure there'll be no verlence."

"Listen," said John, curbing a desire to jab at this man through the
bars with the teaspoon. "I don't know who you are...."

"Flannery's the name, sir, as I said before. Sergeant-Major Flannery."

"... but I can't believe you're in this business...."

"Indeed I am, sir. I am Doctor Twist's assistant."

"But this man is a criminal, you fool...."

Sergeant-Major Flannery seemed pained rather than annoyed.

"Come, come, sir. A little civility, if you please. This, what I may
call contumacious attitude, isn't helping you. Surely you can see that
for yourself? Always remember, sir, the voice with the smile wins."

"This fellow Twist burgled our house last night. And all the while
you're keeping me shut up here he's getting away."

"Is that so, sir? What house would that be?"

"Rudge Hall."

"Never heard of it."

"It's near Rudge-in-the-Vale. Twenty miles from here. Mr. Carmody's
place."

"Mr. Lester Carmody who was here taking the cure?"

"Yes. I'm his nephew."

"His nephew, eh?"

"Yes."

"Come, come!"

"What do you mean?"

"It so 'appens," said Mr. Flannery, with quiet satisfaction, removing
one hand from the window bars in order to fondle his moustache, "that
I've seen Mr. Carmody's nephew. Tallish, thinnish, pleasant-faced young
fellow. He was over here to visit Mr. Carmody during the latter's
temp'ry residence. I had him pointed out to me."

Painful though the process was, John felt compelled to grit his teeth.

"That was Mr. Carmody's other nephew."

"Other nephew, eh?"

"My cousin."

"Your cousin, eh?"

"His name's Hugo."

"Hugo, eh?"

"Good God!" cried John. "Are you a parrot?"

Mr. Flannery, if he had not been standing on a ladder, would no doubt
have drawn himself up haughtily at this outburst. Being none too
certain of his footing, he contented himself with looking offended.

"No, sir," he said with a dignity which became him well, "in reply to
your question, I am not a parrot. I am a salaried assistant at Doctor
Twist's health-establishment, detailed to look after the patients and
keep them away from the cigarettes and see that they do their exercises
in a proper manner. And, as I said to the young lady, I understand
human nature and am a match for artfulness of any description. What's
more, it was precisely this kind of artfulness on your part that
the young lady warned me against. 'Be careful, Sergeant-Major,' she
said to me, clasping her 'ands in what I may call an agony of appeal,
'that this poor, misguided young son of a what-not don't come it over
you with his talk about being the Lost Heir of some family living in
the near neighbourhood. Because he's sure to try it on, you can take
it from me, Sergeant-Major,' she said. And I said to the young lady,
'Miss,' I said, 'he won't come it over Egbert Flannery. Not him. I've
seen too much of that sort of thing, miss,' I said. And the young lady
said, 'Gawd's strewth, Sergeant-Major,' she said, 'I wish there was
more men in the world like you, Sergeant-Major, because then it would
be a dam' sight better place than it is, Sergeant-Major.'" He paused.
Then, realizing an omission, added the words, "she said."

John clutched at his throbbing head.

"Young lady? What young lady?"

"You know well enough what young lady, sir. The young lady what brought
you here to leave you in our charge. That young lady."

"That young lady?"

"Yes, sir. The one who brought you here."

"Brought me here?"

"And left you in our charge."

"Left me in your charge?"

"Come, come, sir!" said Mr. Flannery. "Are you a parrot?"

The adroit thrust made no impression on John. His mind was too busy
to recognize it for what it was--viz., about the cleverest repartee
ever uttered by a non-commissioned officer of His Majesty's regular
forces. A monstrous suspicion had smitten him, with the effect almost
of a physical blow. Suspicion? It was more than a suspicion. If it was
at Dolly Molloy's request that he was now locked up in this infernal
room, then, bizarre as it might seem, Dolly Molloy must in some way be
connected with the nefarious activities of the man Twist. The links
that connected the two might be obscure, but as to the fact there could
be no doubt whatever.

"You mean ..." he gasped.

"I mean your sister, sir, who brought you over here in her car."

"What! That was my car."

"No, no, sir, that won't do. I saw her myself driving off in it some
hours ago. She waved her 'and to me," said Mr. Flannery, caressing his
moustache and allowing a note of tender sentiment to creep into his
voice. "Yes, sir! She turned and waved her 'and."

John made no reply. He was beyond speech. Trifling though it might seem
to an insurance company in comparison with the loss of Rudge Hall's
more valuable treasures, the theft of the two-seater smote him a blow
from which he could not hope to rally. He loved his Widgeon Seven. He
had nursed it, tended it, oiled it, watered it, watched over it in
sickness and in health as if it had been a baby sister. And now it had
gone.

"Look here!" he cried feverishly. "You must let me out of here. At
once!"

"No, sir. I promised your sister...."

"She isn't my sister! I haven't got a sister! Good heavens, man, can't
you understand...."

"I understand very well, sir. Artfulness! I was prepared for it."
Sergeant-Major Flannery paused for an instant. "The young lady," he
said dreamily, "was afraid, too, that you might try to bribe me. She
warned me most particular."

John did not speak. His Widgeon Seven! Gone!

"Bribe me!" repeated Sergeant-Major Flannery, his eyes widening. It was
evident that the mere thought of such a thing sickened this good man.
"She said you would try to bribe me to let you go."

"Well, you can make your mind easy," said John between his teeth. "I
haven't any money."

There was a moment's silence. Then Mr. Flannery said "Ho!" in a rather
short manner. And silence fell again.

It was broken by the Sergeant-Major, in a moralizing vein.

"It's a wonder to me," he said, and there was peevishness in his
voice, "that a young fellow with a lovely sister like what you've got
can bring himself to lower himself to the beasts of the field, as
the saying is. Drink in moderation is one thing. Mopping it up and
becoming verlent and a nuisance to all is another. If you'd ever seen
one of them lantern slides showing what alcohol does to the liver of
the excessive drinker maybe you'd have pulled up sharp while there
was time. And not," said the Sergeant-Major, still with that oddly
querulous note in his voice, "have wasted all your money on what could
only do you 'arm. If you 'adn't of give in so to your self-indulgence
and what I may call besottedness, you would now 'ave your pocket full
of money to spend how you fancied." He sighed. "Your cuppertea's got
cold," he said moodily.

"I don't want any tea."

"Then I'll be leaving you," said Mr. Flannery. "If you require
anything, press the bell. Nobody'll take any notice of it."

He withdrew cautiously down the ladder, and, having paused at the
bottom to shake his head reproachfully, disappeared from view.

John did not miss him. His desire for company had passed. What
he wanted now was to be alone and to think. Not that there was
any likelihood of his thoughts being pleasant ones. The more he
contemplated the iniquity of the Molloy family, the deeper did the iron
enter into his soul. If ever he set eyes on Thomas G. Molloy again....

He set eyes on him again, oddly enough, at this very moment. From where
he stood, looking out through the bars of the window, there was visible
to him a considerable section of the drive. And up the drive at this
juncture, toiling painfully, came Mr. Molloy in person, seated on a
bicycle.

As John craned his neck and glared down with burning eyes, the rider
dismounted, and the bicycle, which appeared to have been waiting for
the chance, bit him neatly in the ankle with its left pedal. John was
too far away to hear the faint cry of agony which escaped the suffering
man, but he could see his face. It was a bright crimson face, powdered
with dust, and its features were twisted in anguish.

John went back to the jug and took another long drink. In the spectacle
just presented to him he had found a faint, feeble glimmering of
consolation.




                              CHAPTER XII


                                   I

On leaving John, Sergeant-Major Flannery's first act was to go to
what he was accustomed to call the orderly room and make his report.
He reached it only a few minutes after its occupant's return to
consciousness. Chimp Twist had opened his eyes and staggered to his
feet at just about the moment when the Sergeant-Major was offering John
the cup of tea.

Mr. Twist's initial discovery, like John's, was that he had a headache.
He then set himself to try to decide where he was. His mind clearing
a little, he was enabled to gather that he was in England ... and,
assembling the facts by degrees, in his study at Healthward Ho
(formerly Graveney Court), Worcestershire. After that, everything came
back to him, and he stood holding to the table with one hand and still
grasping the lily with the other, and gave himself up to scorching
reflections on the subject of the resourceful Mrs. Molloy.

He was still busy with these when there was a forceful knock on the
door and Sergeant-Major Flannery entered.

Chimp's grip of the table tightened. He held himself together like one
who sees a match set to a train of gunpowder and awaits the shattering
explosion. His visitor's lips had begun to move, and Chimp could
guess how that parade-ground voice was going to sound to a man with a
headache like his.

"H'rarp-h'm," began Mr. Flannery, clearing his throat, and Chimp with
a sharp cry reeled to a chair and sank into it. The noise had hit him
like a shell. He cowered where he sat, peering at the Sergeant-Major
with haggard eyes.

"Oo-er!" boomed Mr. Flannery, noting these symptoms. "You aren't
looking up to the mark, Mr. Twist."

Chimp dropped the lily, feeling the necessity of having both hands
free. He found he experienced a little relief if he put the palms over
his eyes and pressed hard.

"I'll tell you what it is, sir," roared the sympathetic Sergeant-Major.
"What's 'appened 'ere is that that nasty, feverish cold of yours
has gone and struck inwards. It's left your 'ead and has penetrated
internally to your vitals. If only you'd have took taraxacum and hops
like I told you...."

"Go away!" moaned Chimp, adding in a low voice what seemed to him a
suitable destination.

Mr. Flannery regarded him with mild reproach.

"There's nothing gained, Mr. Twist, by telling me to get to 'ell out of
here. I've merely come for the single and simple reason that I thought
you would wish to know I've had a conversation with the verlent case
upstairs, and the way it looks to me, sir, subject to your approval, is
that it 'ud be best not to let him out from under lock and key for some
time to come. True, 'e did not attempt anything in the nature of actual
physical attack, being prevented no doubt by the fact that there was
iron bars between him and me, but his manner throughout was peculiar,
not to say odd, and I recommend that all communications be conducted
till further notice through the window."

"Do what you like," said Chimp faintly.

"It isn't what I like, sir," bellowed Mr. Flannery virtuously. "It's
what you like and instruct, me being in your employment and only 'ere
to carry out your orders smartly as you give them. And there's one
other matter, sir. As perhaps you are aware, the young lady went off in
the little car ..."

"Don't talk to me about the young lady."

"I was only about to say, Mr. Twist, that you will doubtless be
surprised to hear that for some reason or another, having started to
go off in the little car, the young lady apparently decided on second
thoughts to continue her journey by train. She left the little car at
Lowick Station, with instructions that it be returned 'ere. I found
that young Jakes, the station-master's son, outside with it a moment
ago. Tooting the 'orn, he was, the young rascal, and saying he wanted
half a crown. Using my own discretion, I gave him sixpence. You may
reimburse me at your leisure and when convenient. Shall I take the
little car and put it in the garridge, sir?"

Chimp gave eager assent to this proposition, as he would have done
to any proposition which appeared to carry with it the prospect of
removing this man from his presence.

"It's funny, the young lady leaving the little car at the station,
sir," mused Mr. Flannery in a voice that shook the chandelier. "I
suppose she happened to reach there at a moment when a train was
signalled and decided that she preferred not to overtax her limited
strength by driving to London. I fancy she must have had London as her
objective."

Chimp fancied so, too. A picture rose before his eyes of Dolly and
Soapy revelling together in the metropolis, with the loot of Rudge Hall
bestowed in some safe place where he would never, never be able to get
at it. The picture was so vivid that he uttered a groan.

"Where does it catch you, sir?" asked Mr. Flannery solicitously.

"Eh?"

"The pain, sir. The agony. You appear to be suffering. If you take
my advice, you'll get off to bed and put an 'ot-water bottle on your
stummick. Lay it right across the abdomen, sir. It may dror the poison
out. I had an old aunt...."

"I don't want to hear about your aunt."

"Very good, sir. Just as you wish."

"Tell me about her some other time."

"Any time that suits you, sir," said Mr. Flannery agreeably. "Well,
I'll be off and putting the little car in the garridge."

He left the room, and Chimp, withdrawing his hands from his eyes,
gave himself up to racking thought. A man recovering from knock-out
drops must necessarily see things in a jaundiced light, but it is
scarcely probable that, even had he been in robust health, Mr. Twist's
meditations would have been much pleasanter. Condensed, they resolved
themselves, like John's, into a passionate wish that he could meet
Soapy Molloy again, if only for a moment.

And he had hardly decided that such a meeting was the only thing which
life now had to offer, when the door opened again and the maid appeared.

"Mr. Molloy to see you, sir."

Chimp started from his chair.

"Show him in," he said in a tense, husky voice.

There was a shuffling noise without, and Soapy appeared in the doorway.


                                  II

The progress of Mr. Molloy across the threshold of Chimp Twist's study
bore a striking resemblance to that of some spent runner breasting
the tape at the conclusion of a more than usually gruelling Marathon
race. His hair was disordered, his face streaked with dust and heat,
and his legs acted so independently of his body that they gave him an
odd appearance of moving in several directions at once. An unbiassed
observer, seeing him, could not but have felt a pang of pity for this
wreck of what had once, apparently, been a fine, upstanding man.

Chimp was not an unbiassed observer. He did not pity his old business
partner. Judging from a first glance, Soapy Molloy seemed to him to
have been caught in some sort of machinery, and subsequently run over
by several motor lorries, and Chimp was glad of it. He would have liked
to seek out the man in charge of that machinery and the drivers of
those lorries, and reward them handsomely.

"So here you are!" he said.

Mr. Molloy, navigating cautiously, backed and filled in the direction
of the armchair. Reaching it after considerable difficulty, he
gripped its sides and lowered himself with infinite weariness. A sharp
exclamation escaped him as he touched the cushions. Then, sinking back,
he closed his eyes and immediately went to sleep.

Chimp gazed down at him, seething with resentment that made his head
ache worse than ever. That Soapy should have had the cold, callous
crust to come to Healthward Ho at all after what had happened was
sufficiently infuriating. That, having come, he should proceed without
a word of explanation or apology to treat the study as a bedroom was
more than Chimp could endure. Stooping down, he gripped his old friend
by his luxuriant hair and waggled his head smartly from side to side
several times. The treatment proved effective. Soapy sat up.

"Eh?" he said, blinking.

"What do you mean, eh?"

"Which...? Why...? Where am I?"

"I'll tell you where you are."

"Oh!" said Mr. Molloy, intelligence returning.

He sank back among the cushions again. Now that the first agony of
contact was over he was finding their softness delightful. In the
matter of seats, a man who has ridden twenty miles on an elderly
push-bicycle becomes an exacting critic.

"Gee! I feel bad!" he murmured.

It was a natural remark, perhaps, for a man in his condition to make,
but it had the effect of adding several degrees Fahrenheit to his
companion's already impressive warmth. For some moments Chimp Twist,
wrestling with his emotion, could find no form of self-expression
beyond a curious spluttering noise.

"Yes, sir," proceeded Mr. Molloy, "I feel bad. All the way over here on
a bicycle, Chimpie, that's where I've been. It's in the calf of the leg
that it gets me principally. There and around the instep. And I wish I
had a dollar for every bruise those darned pedals have made on me."

"And what about me?" demanded Chimp, at last ceasing to splutter.

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Molloy, wistfully, "I certainly wish someone would
come along and offer me even as much as fifty cents for every bruise
I've gotten from the ankles upwards. They've come out on me like a rash
or something."

"If you had my headache...."

"Yes, I've a headache, too," said Mr. Molloy. "It was the hot sun
beating down on my neck that did it. There were times when I thought
really I'd have to pass the thing up. Say, if you knew what I feel
like...."

"And how about what I feel like?" shrilled Mr. Twist, quivering with
self-pity. "A nice thing that was that wife of yours did to me! A fine
trick to play on a business partner! Slipping stuff into my highball
that laid me out cold. Is that any way to behave? Is that a system?"

Mr. Molloy considered the point.

"The madam is a mite impulsive," he admitted.

"And leaving me laying there and putting a lily in my hand!"

"That was her playfulness," explained Mr. Molloy. "Girls will have
their bit of fun."

"Fun! Say...."

Mr. Molloy felt that it was time to point the moral.

"It was your fault, Chimpie. You brought it on yourself by acting
greedy and trying to get the earth. If you hadn't stood us up for that
sixty-five--thirty-five of yours, all this would never have happened.
Naturally no high-spirited girl like the madam wasn't going to stand
for nothing like that. But listen while I tell you what I've come
about. If you're willing to can all that stuff and have a fresh deal
and a square one this time--one-third to me, one-third to you, and
one-third to the madam--I'll put you hep to something that'll make you
feel good. Yes, sir, you'll go singing about the house."

"The only thing you could tell me that would make me feel good,"
replied Chimp, churlishly, "would be that you'd tumbled off of that
bicycle of yours and broken your damned neck."

Mr. Molloy was pained.

"Is that nice, Chimpie?"

Mr. Twist wished to know if, in the circumstances and after what had
occurred, Mr. Molloy expected him to kiss him. Mr. Molloy said No, but
where was the sense of harsh words? Where did harsh words get anybody?
When had harsh words ever paid any dividend?

"If you had a headache like mine, Chimpie," said Mr. Molloy,
reproachfully, "you'd know how it felt to sit and listen to an old
friend giving you the razz."

Chimp was obliged to struggle for a while with a sudden return of his
spluttering.

"A headache like yours? Where do you get that stuff? My headache's a
darned sight worse than your headache."

"It couldn't be, Chimpie."

"If you want to know what a headache really is, you take some of those
kayo drops you're so fond of."

"Well, putting that on one side," said Mr. Molloy, wisely forbearing to
argue, "let me tell you what I've come here about. Chimpie, that guy
Carmody has double-crossed us. He was on to us from the start."

"What!"

"Yes, sir. I had it from his own lips in person. And do you know what
he done? He took that stuff out of the closet and sent his chauffeur
over to Worcester to put it in the Left Luggage place at the depôt
there."

"What!"

"Yes, sir."

"Gee!" said Mr. Twist, impressed. "That was smooth. Then you haven't
got it, do you mean?"

"No. I haven't got it."

Mr. Twist had never expected to feel anything in the nature of elation
that day or for many days to come, but at these words something like
ecstasy came upon him. He uttered a delighted laugh, which, owing to
sudden agony in the head, changed to a muffled howl.

"So, after all your smartness," he said, removing his hands from his
temples as the spasm passed, "you're no better off than what I am?"

"We're both sitting pretty, Chimpie, if we get together and act quick."

"How's that? Act how?"

"I'll tell you. This chauffeur guy left the stuff and brought home the
ticket...."

"... and gave it to old man Carmody, I suppose? Well, where does that
get us?"

"No, sir! He didn't give it to old man Carmody. He gave it to that
young Carroll fellow!" said Mr. Molloy.

The significance of the information was not lost upon Chimp. He stared
at Mr. Molloy.

"Carroll?" he said. "You mean the bird upstairs?"

"Is he upstairs?"

"Sure he's upstairs. Locked in a room with bars on the window. You're
certain he has the ticket?"

"I know he has. So all we've got to do now is get it off him."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

"And how," inquired Chimp, "do you propose to do it?"

Mr. Molloy made no immediate reply. The question was one which, in the
intervals of dodging the pedals of his bicycle, he had been asking
himself ever since he had left Rudge Hall. He had hoped that in the
enthusiasm of the moment some spontaneous solution would leap from his
old friend's lips, but it was plain that this was not to be.

"I thought maybe you would think of a way, Chimpie," he was compelled
to confess.

"Oh? Me, eh?"

"You're smart," said Mr. Molloy, deferentially. "You've got a head.
Whatever anyone's said about you, no one's ever denied that. You'll
think of a way."

"I will, will I? And while I'm doing it, you'll just sit back, I
suppose, and have a nice rest? And all you're suggesting that I'm to
get out of it...."

"Now, Chimpie!" quavered Mr. Molloy. He had feared this development.

"... is a measly one-third. Say, let me tell you...."

"Now, Chimpie," urged Mr. Molloy, with unshed tears in his voice,
"let's not start all that over again. We settled the terms. Gentlemen's
agreement. It's all fixed."

"Is it? Come down out of the clouds, you're scaring the birds. What I
want now, if I'm going to do all the work and help you out of a tough
spot, is seventy-thirty."

"Seventy-thirty!' echoed Mr. Molloy, appalled.

"And if you don't like it let's hear you suggest a way of getting that
ticket off of that guy upstairs. Maybe you'd like to go up and have
a talk with him? If he's feeling anything like the way I felt when I
came to after those kayo drops of yours, he'll be glad to see you. What
does it matter to you if he pulls your head off and drops it out of the
window? You can only live once, so what the hell!"

Mr. Molloy gazed dismally before him. Never a very inventive man,
his bicycle ride had left him even less capable of inspiration than
usual. He had to admit himself totally lacking in anything resembling
a constructive plan of campaign. He yearned for his dear wife's gentle
presence. Dolly was the bright one of the family. In a crisis like this
she would have been full of ideas, each one a crackerjack.

"We can't keep him locked up in that room for ever," he said unhappily.

"We don't have to--not if you agree to my seventy-thirty."

"Have you thought of a way, then?"

"Sure I've thought of a way."

Mr. Molloy's depression became more marked than ever. He knew what this
meant. The moment he gave up the riddle that miserable little Chimp
would come out with some scheme which had been staring him in the face
all along, if only he had had the intelligence to see it.

"Well?" said Chimp. "Think quick. And remember, thirty's better than
nothing. And don't say, when I've told you, that it's just the idea
you've had yourself from the start."

Mr. Molloy urged his weary brain to one last spurt of activity, but
without result. He was a specialist. He could sell shares in phantom
oil wells better than anybody on either side of the Atlantic, but there
he stopped. Outside his specialty he was almost a total loss.

"All right, Chimpie," he sighed, facing the inevitable.

"Seventy-thirty?"

"Seventy-thirty. Though how I'm to break it to the madam, I don't know.
She won't like it, Chimpie. It'll be a nasty blow for the madam."

"I hope it chokes her," said Chimp, unchivalrously. "Her and her
lilies! Well, then. Here's what we do. When Flannery takes the guy his
coffee and eggs to-morrow, there'll be something in the pot besides
coffee. There'll be some of those kayo drops of yours. And then all we
have to do is just simply walk upstairs and dig the ticket out of his
clothes and there we are."

Mr. Molloy uttered an agonized cry. His presentiment had been correct.

"I'd have thought of that myself ..." he wailed.

"Sure you would," replied Chimp, comfortably, "if you'd of had
something that wasn't a hubbard squash or something where your head
ought to be. Those just-as-good imitation heads never pay in the long
run. What you ought to do is sell yours for what it'll fetch and get a
new one. And next time," said Chimp, "make it a prettier one."




                             CHAPTER XIII


                                   I

The dawn of what promised to be an eventful day broke grayly over
Healthward Ho. By seven o'clock, however, the sun had forced its way
through the mists and at eight precisely one of its rays, stealing
in at an upper window, fell upon Sergeant-Major Flannery, lovely in
sleep. He grunted, opened his eyes, and, realizing that another morning
had arrived with all its manifold tasks and responsibilities, heaved
himself out of bed and after a few soldierly setting-up exercises began
his simple toilet. This completed, he made his way to the kitchen,
where a fragrant smell of bacon and coffee announced that breakfast
awaited him.

His companions in the feast, Rosa, the maid, and Mrs. Evans, the cook,
greeted him with the respectful warmth due to a man of his position
and gifts. However unpopular Mr. Flannery might be with the resident
patients of Healthward Ho--and Admiral Sir James Rigby-Rudd, for one,
had on several occasions expressed a wistful desire to skin him--he
was always sure of a hearty welcome below stairs. Rosa worshipped his
moustache, and Mrs. Evans found his conversation entertaining.

To-day, however, though the moustache was present in all its pristine
glory, the conversation was lacking. Usually it was his custom,
before so much as spearing an egg, to set things going brightly with
some entertaining remark on the state of the weather or possibly the
absorbing description of a dream which he had had in the night, but
this morning he sat silent--or as nearly silent as he could ever be
when eating.

"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Flannery," said Mrs. Evans, piqued. The
Sergeant-Major started. It came to him that he had been remiss.

"I was thinking, ma'am," he said, poising a forkful of bacon, "of what
I may call the sadness of life."

"Life is sad," agreed Mrs. Evans.

"Ah!" said Rosa, the maid, who, being a mere slip of a girl and only
permitted to join in these symposia as a favour, should not have spoken
at all.

"That verlent case upstairs," proceeded Mr. Flannery, swallowing the
bacon and forking up another load. "Now, there's something that makes
your heart bleed, if I may use the expression at the breakfast table.
That young fellow, no doubt, started out in life with everything
pointing to a happy and prosperous career.

"Good home, good education, everything. And just because he's allowed
himself to fall into bad 'abits, there he is under lock and key, so to
speak."

"Can he get out?" asked Rosa. It was a subject which she and the cook
discussed in alarmed whispers far into the night.

Mr. Flannery raised his eyebrows.

"No, he cannot get out. And, if he did, you wouldn't have nothing to
fear, not with me around."

"I'm sure it's a comfort feeling that you are around, Mr. Flannery,"
said Mrs. Evans.

"Almost the very words the young fellow's sister said to me when she
left him here," rumbled Mr. Flannery complacently. "She said to me,
'Sergeant-Major,' she said, 'it's such a relief to feel that there's
someone like you 'ere, Sergeant-Major,' she said. 'I'm sure you're
wonderful in any kind of an emergency, Sergeant-Major,' she said." He
sighed. "It's thinking of 'er that brings home the sadness of it all to
a man, if you understand me. What I mean, here's that beautiful young
creature racked with anxiety, as the saying is, on account of this
worthless brother of hers...."

"I didn't think she was so beautiful," said Rosa.

An awful silence followed these words, the sort of silence that would
fall upon a housekeeper's room if, supposing such a thing possible,
some young under-footman were to contradict the butler. Sergeant-Major
Flannery's eyes bulged, and he drank coffee in a marked manner.

"Don't you talk nonsense, my girl," he said shortly.

"A girl can speak, can't she? A girl can make a remark, can't she?"

"Certainly she can speak," replied Mr. Flannery. "Undoubtedly she can
make a remark. But," he added with quiet severity, "let it be sense.
That young lady was the most beautiful young lady I've ever seen. She
had eyes"--he paused for a telling simile--"eyes," he resumed devoutly,
"like twin stars." He turned to Mrs. Evans, "When you've got that
case's breakfast ready, ma'am, perhaps you would instruct someone to
bring it out to me in the garden and I'll take it up to him. I shall be
smoking my pipe in the shrubbery."

"You're not going already, Mr. Flannery?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"But you haven't finished your breakfast."

"I have quite finished my breakfast, ma'am," said Sergeant-Major
Flannery. "I would not wish to eat any more."

He withdrew. To the pleading in the eyes of Rosa he pointedly paid
no attention. He was not aware of the destructive effect which the
moustache nestling between his thumb and forefinger had wrought on the
girl's heart, but he considered rightly that if you didn't keep women
in their place occasionally, where were you? Rosa was a nice little
thing, but nice little things must not be allowed to speak lightly of
goddesses.

In the kitchen which he had left conversation had now resolved itself
into a monologue by Mrs. Evans, on the Modern Girl. It need not be
reported in detail, for Mrs. Evans on the Modern Girl was very like all
the other members of the older generation who from time to time have
given their views on the subject in the pulpit and the press. Briefly,
Mrs. Evans did not know what girls were coming to nowadays. They spoke
irreverently in the presence of their elders. They lacked respect. They
thrust themselves forward. They annoyed good men to the extent of only
half finishing their breakfasts. What Mrs. Evans's mother would have
said if Mrs. Evans in her girlhood had behaved as Rosa had just behaved
was a problem which Mrs. Evans frankly admitted herself unable to solve.

And at the end of it all the only remark which Rosa vouchsafed was a
repetition of the one which had caused Sergeant-Major Flannery to leave
the table short one egg and a slice of bacon of his normal allowance.

"I didn't think she was so beautiful," said Rosa, tossing a bobbed
auburn head.

Whether this deplorable attitude would have reduced Mrs. Evans to
a despairing silence or caused her to repeat her observations with
renewed energy will never be known, for at this moment one of the bells
above the dresser jangled noisily.

"That's Him," said Mrs. Evans. "Go and see what He wants." She usually
referred to the proprietor of Healthward Ho by means of a pronoun with
a capital letter, disapproving, though she recognized its aptness, of
her assistant's preference for the soubriquet of Old Monkey Brand. "If
it's His breakfast, tell Him it'll be ready in a minute."

Rosa departed.

"It's not His breakfast," she announced, returning. "It's the Case
Upstairs's breakfast. Old Monkey Brand wants to have a look at it
before it's took him."

"Don't call Him Old Monkey Brand."

"Well, it's what he looks like, isn't it?"

"Never mind," replied Mrs. Evans, and resumed her speculations as to
what her mother would have said.

"He's to have some bacon and eggs and toast and a potter coffee," said
Rosa, showing rather a lack of interest in Mrs. Evans's mother. "And
old Lord Twist wants to have a look at it before it's took him. It all
depends what you call beautiful," said Rosa. "If you're going to call
anyone beautiful that's got touched-up hair and eyes like one of those
vamps in the pictures, well, all I can say is..."

"That's enough," said Mrs. Evans.

Silence reigned in the kitchen, broken only by the sizzling of bacon
and the sniffs of a modern girl who did not see eye to eye with her
elders on the subject of feminine beauty.

"Here you are," said Mrs. Evans at length. "Get me one of them trays
and the pepper and salt and mustard and be careful you don't drop it."

"Drop it? Why should I drop it?"

"Well, don't."

"There was a woman in _Hearts and Satins_ that had eyes just like
hers," said Rosa, balancing the tray and speaking with the cold scorn
which good women feel for their erring sisters. "And what she didn't
do! Apart from stealing all them important papers relating to the
invention...."

"You're spilling that coffee."

"No, I'm not."

"Well, don't," said Mrs. Evans.


                                  II

Out in the garden, hidden from the gaze of any who might espy him and
set him to work, Sergeant-Major Flannery lolled in the shrubbery,
savouring that best smoke of the day, the after-breakfast pipe. He was
still ruffled, for Dolly had made a deep impression on him and any
statement to the effect that she was not a thing of loveliness ranked
to his thinking under the head of blasphemy.

Of course, he mused, there was this to be said for the girl Rosa,
this rather important point to be put forward in extenuation of her
loose speech--she worshipped the ground he walked on and had obviously
spoken as she did under the sudden smart of an uncontrollable
jealousy. Contemplated in this light her remarks became almost
excusable, and, growing benevolent under the influence of tobacco, Mr.
Flannery began to feel his resentment changing gradually into something
approaching tenderness.

Rosa, when you came to look at it squarely, was, he reflected, rather
to be pitied than censured. Young girls, of course, needed suppressing
at times, and had to be ticked off for their own good when they got
above themselves, but there was no doubt that the situation must have
been trying to one in her frame of mind. To hear the man she worshipped
speaking with unrestrained praise of the looks of another of her sex
was enough to upset any girl. Properly looked at, in short, Rosa's
outburst had been a compliment, and Sergeant-Major Flannery, now
definitely mollified, decided to forgive her.

At this moment he heard footsteps on the gravel path that skirted the
shrubbery, and became alert and vigilant. He was not supposed to smoke
in the grounds at Healthward Ho because of the maddening effect the
spectacle could not fail to have upon the patients if they saw him. He
knocked out his pipe and peered cautiously through the branches. Then
he perceived that he need have had no alarm. It was only Rosa. She
was standing with her back to him holding a laden tray. He remembered
now that he had left instructions that the Case's breakfast should be
brought out to him, preliminary to being carried up the ladder.

"Mr. Flanner-ee!" called Rosa, and scanned the horizon.

It was not often that Sergeant-Major Flannery permitted himself any
action that might be called arch or roguish, but his meditations in the
shrubbery, added to the mellowing influence of tobacco, had left him in
an unusually light-hearted mood. The sun was shining, the little birds
were singing, and Mr. Flannery felt young and gay. Putting his pipe in
his pocket, accordingly, he crept through the shrubbery until he was
immediately behind the girl and then in a tender whisper uttered the
single word:

"Boo!"

All great men have their limitations. We recognize the inevitability of
this and do not hold it against them. One states, therefore, not in any
spirit of reproach but simply as a fact of historical interest, that
tender whispering was one of the things that Sergeant-Major Flannery
did not do well. Between intention and performance there was, when Mr.
Flannery set out to whisper tenderly, a great gulf fixed. The actual
sound he now uttered was not unlike that which might proceed from the
fog horn of an Atlantic liner or a toastmaster having a fit in a
boiler shop, and, bursting forth as it did within a few inches of her
ear without any warning whatsoever, it had on Rosa an effect identical
with that produced on Colonel Wyvern at an earlier point in this
chronicle by John Carroll's sudden bellow outside the shop of Chas.
Bywater, Chemist. From trivial causes great events may spring. Rosa
sprang about three feet. A sharp squeal escaped her and she dropped the
tray. After which, she stood with a hand on her heart, panting.

Sergeant-Major Flannery recognized at once that he had done the wrong
thing. His generous spirit had led him astray. If he had wished to
inform Rosa that all was forgotten and forgiven he should have stepped
out of the shrubbery and said so in a few simple words, face to face.
By acting, as it were, obliquely and allowing himself to be for the
moment a disembodied voice, he had made a mess of things. Among the
things he had made a mess of were a pot of coffee, a pitcher of milk,
a bowl of sugar, a dish of butter, vessels containing salt, mustard,
and pepper, a rack of toast, and a plateful of eggs and bacon. All
these objects now littered the turf before him; and, emerging from the
shrubbery, he surveyed them ruefully.

"Oo-er!" he said.

Oddly enough, relief rather than annoyance seemed to be the emotion
dominating his companion. If ever there was an occasion when a girl
might excusably have said some of the things girls are so good at
saying nowadays, this was surely it. But Rosa merely panted at the
Sergeant-Major thankfully.

"I thought you was the Case Upstairs!" she gasped. "When I heard that
ghastly sound right in my ear I thought it was him got out."

"You're all right, my girl," said Mr. Flannery. "I'm 'ere."

"Oh, Mr. Flannery!"

"There, there!" said the Sergeant-Major.

In spite of the feeling that he was behaving a little prematurely, he
slipped a massive arm around the girl's waist. He also kissed her. He
had not intended to commit himself quite so definitely as this, but it
seemed now the only thing to do.

Rosa became calmer.

"I dropped the tray," she said.

"Yes," said Mr. Flannery, who was quick at noticing things.

"I'd better go and tell him."

"Tell Mr. Twist?"

"Well, I'd better, hadn't I?"

Mr. Flannery demurred. To tell Mr. Twist involved explanations, and
explanations, if they were to be convincing, must necessarily reveal
him, Mr. Flannery, in a light none too dignified. It might be that,
having learned the facts, Mr. Twist would decide to dispense with
the services of an assistant who, even from the best motives, hid in
shrubberies and said "Boo!" to maidservants.

"You listen to me, my girl," he advised. "Mr. Twist is a busy gentleman
that has many responsibilities and much to occupy him. He don't want
to be bothered with no stories of dropped trays. All you just do is
run back to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Evans to cook the Case some more
breakfast. The coffee pot's broke, but the cup ain't broke and the
plate ain't broke and the mustardan-pepperan-salt thing ain't broke.
I'll pick 'em up and you take 'em back on the tray and don't say
nothing to nobody. While you're gone I'll be burying what's left of
them eggs."

"But Mr. Twist put something special in the coffee."

"Eh? How do you mean?"

"When I took him in the tray just now, he said, 'Is that the Case
Upstairs' breakfast?' and I said Yes, it was, and Old Monkey Brand put
something that looked like a aspirin tablet or something in the coffee
pot. I thought it might be some medicine he had to have to make him
quiet and keep him from breaking out and murdering all of us."

Mr. Flannery smiled indulgently.

"That Case Upstairs don't need nothing of that sort, not when I'm
around," he said. "Doctor Twist's like all these civilians. He gets
unduly nervous. He don't understand that there's no need or necessity
or occasion whatsoever for these what I may call sedatives when I'm on
the premises to lend a 'and in case of any verlence. Besides, it don't
do anybody no good always to be taking these drugs and what not. The
Case 'ad 'is sleeping draught yesterday, and you never know it might
not undermine his 'ealth to go taking another this morning. So if Mr.
Twist asks you has the Case had his coffee, you just say 'Yes, sir,' in
a smart and respectful manner, and I'll do the same. And then nobody
needn't be any the wiser."

Mr. Flannery's opportunity of doing the same occurred not more than
a quarter of an hour later. Returning from the task of climbing the
ladder and handing in the revised breakfast at John's window, he
encountered his employer in the hall.

"Oh, Flannery," said Mr. Twist.

"Sir?"

"The--er--the violent case. Has he had breakfast?"

"He was eatin' it quite 'earty when I left him not five minutes ago,
sir."

Chimp paused.

"Did he drink his coffee?" he asked carelessly.

"Yes, sir," replied Sergeant-Major Flannery in a smart and respectful
manner.

"Oh! I see. Thank you."

"Thank _you_, sir," said Sergeant-Major Flannery.


                                  III

In describing John as eating his breakfast quite 'earty, Sergeant-Major
Flannery, though not as a rule an artist in words, had for once
undoubtedly achieved the _mot juste_. Hearty was the exact adjective to
describe that ill-used young man's methods of approach to the eggs and
bacon and coffee which his gaoler had handed in between the bars of the
window. Neither his now rooted dislike of Mr. Flannery nor any sense of
the indignity of accepting food like some rare specimen in a zoo could
compete in John with an appetite which had been growing silently within
him through the night watches. His headache had gone, leaving in its
place a hunger which wolves might have envied. Placing himself outside
an egg almost before the Sergeant-Major had time to say "Oo-er!" he
finished the other egg, the bacon, the toast, the butter, the milk, and
the coffee, and, having lifted the plate to see if any crumbs had got
concealed beneath it and finding none, was compelled reluctantly to
regard the meal as concluded.

He now felt considerably better. Food and drink had stayed in him that
animal ravenousness which makes food and drink the only possible object
of a man's thoughts; and he was able to turn his mind to other matters.
Having found and swallowed a lump of sugar which had got itself
overlooked under a fold of the napkin, he returned to the bed and
lay down. A man who wishes to think can generally do so better in a
horizontal position. So John lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling,
pondering.

He certainly had sufficient material for thought to keep him occupied
almost indefinitely. The more he meditated upon his present situation
the less was he able to understand it. That the villain Twist, wishing
to get away with the spoils of Rudge Hall, should have imprisoned
him in this room in order to gain time for flight would have been
intelligible. John would never have been able to bring himself to
approve of such an action, but he had to admit its merits as a piece of
strategy.

But Twist had not flown. According to Sergeant-Major Flannery, he was
still on the premises, and so, apparently, was his accomplice, the
black-hearted Molloy. But why? What did they think they were doing? How
long did they suppose they would be able to keep a respectable citizen
cooped up like this, even though his only medium of communication with
the outer world were a more than usually fat-headed sergeant-major? The
thing baffled John completely.

He next turned his mind to thoughts of Pat, and experienced a feverish
concern. Here was something to get worried about. What, he asked
himself, must Pat be thinking? He had promised to call for her in the
Widgeon Seven at one o'clock yesterday. She would assume that he had
forgotten. She would suppose....

He would have gone on torturing himself with these reflections for
a considerable time, but at this moment he suddenly heard a sharp,
clicking sound. It resembled the noise a key makes when turning in
a lock, and was probably the only sound on earth which at that
particular point in his meditations would have had the power to arrest
his attention.

He lifted his head and looked around. Yes, the door was opening. And it
was opening, what was more, in just the nasty, slow, furtive, sneaking
way in which a door would open if somebody like the leper Twist had
got hold of the handle.

In this matter of the hell-hound Twist's mental processes John was
now thoroughly fogged. The man appeared to be something very closely
resembling an imbecile. When flight was the one thing that could do
him a bit of good, he did not fly, and now, having with drugs and
imprisonment and the small talk of sergeant-majors reduced a muscular
young man to a condition of homicidal enthusiasm, he was apparently
paying that young man a social call.

However, the mental condition of this monkey-faced, waxed-moustached
bounder and criminal was beside the point. What was important was to
turn his weak-mindedness to profit. The moment was obviously one for
cunning and craftiness, and John accordingly dropped his head on the
pillow, cunningly closed his eyes, and craftily began to breathe like
one deep in sleep.

The ruse proved effective. After a moment of complete silence, a board
creaked. Then another board creaked. And then he heard the door close
gently. Finally, from the neighbourhood of the door, there came to him
a sound of whispering. And across the years there floated into John's
mind a dim memory. This whispering ... it reminded him of something.

Then he got it. Ages ago ... when he was a child ... Christmas
Eve ... His father and mother lurking in the doorway to make sure that
he was asleep before creeping to the bed and putting the presents in
his stocking.

The recollection encouraged John. There is nothing like having done a
thing before and knowing the technique. He never had been asleep on
those bygone Christmas Eves, but the gift-bearers had never suspected
it, and he resolved that, if any of the old skill and artistry still
lingered with him, the Messrs. Twist and Molloy should not suspect it
now. He deepened the note of his breathing, introducing into it a motif
almost asthmatic.

"It's all right," said the voice of Mr. Twist.

"Okay?" said the voice of Mr. Molloy.

"Okay," said the voice of Mr. Twist.

Whereupon, walking confidently and without any further effort at
stealth, the two approached the bed.

"I guess he drank the whole potful," said Mr. Twist.

Once more John found himself puzzling over the way this man's mind
worked. By pot he presumably meant the coffee pot standing on the tray
and why the contents of this should appear to him in the light of a
soporific was more than John could understand.

"Say, listen," said Mr. Twist. "You go and hang around outside the
door, Soapy."

"Why?" inquired Mr. Molloy, and it seemed to John that he spoke coldly.

"So's to see nobody comes along, of course."

"Yeah?" said Mr. Molloy, and his voice was now unmistakably dry. "And
you'll come out in a minute and tell me you're all broke up about it
but he hadn't got the ticket on him after all."

"You don't think...?"

"Yes, I do think."

"If you can't trust me that far...."

"Chimpie," said Mr. Molloy, "I wouldn't trust you as far as a snail
could make in three jumps. I wouldn't believe you not even if I knew
you were speaking the truth."

"Oh, well if that's how you feel..." said Mr. Twist, injured. Mr.
Molloy, still speaking in that unfriendly voice, replied that that was
precisely how he did feel. And there was silence for a space.

"Oh, very well," said Mr. Twist at length.

John's perplexity increased. He could make nothing of that "ticket."
The only ticket he had in his possession was the one Bolt, the
chauffeur, had given him to give to his uncle for some bag or other
which he had left in the cloak room at Shrub Hill Station. Why should
these men...!

He became aware of fingers groping toward the inner pocket of his coat.
And as they touched him he decided that the moment had come to act.
Bracing the muscles of his back he sprang from the bed, and with an
acrobatic leap hurled himself toward the door and stood leaning against
it.


                                  IV

In the pause which followed this brisk move it soon became evident to
John, rubbing his shoulders against the oak panels and glowering upon
the two treasure seekers, that if the scene was to be brightened by
anything in the nature of a dialogue the ball of conversation would
have to be set rolling by himself. Not for some little time, it was
clear, would his companions be in a condition for speech. Chimp Twist
was looking like a monkey that has bitten into a bad nut, and Soapy
Molloy, like an American Senator who has received an anonymous telegram
saying "All is discovered. Fly at once." This sudden activity on the
part of one whom they had regarded as under the influence of some of
the best knock-out drops that ever came out of Chicago had had upon
them an effect similar to that which would be experienced by a group of
surgeons in an operating theatre if the gentleman on the slab were to
rise abruptly and begin to dance the Charleston.

So it was John who was the first to speak.

"Now, then!" said John. "How about it?"

The question was a purely rhetorical one, and received no reply. Mr.
Molloy uttered an odd, strangled sound like a far-away cat with a
fishbone in its throat, and Chimp's waxed moustache seemed to droop
at the ends. It occurred to both of them that they had never realized
before what a remarkably muscular, well-developed young man John was.
It was also borne in upon them that there are exceptions to the rule
which states that big men are always good-humoured. John, they could
not help noticing, looked like a murderer who had been doing physical
jerks for years.

"I've a good mind to break both your necks," said John.

At these unpleasant words, Mr. Molloy came to life sufficiently to be
able to draw back a step, thus leaving his partner nearer than himself
to the danger zone. It was a move strictly in accordance with business
ethics. For if, Mr. Molloy was arguing, Chimp claimed seventy per cent.
of the profits of their little venture, it was only fair that he should
assume an equivalent proportion of its liabilities. At the moment, the
thing looked like turning out all liabilities, and these Mr. Molloy was
only too glad to split on a seventy-thirty basis. So he moved behind
Chimp, and round the bulwark of his body, which he could have wished
had been more substantial, peered anxiously at John.

John, having sketched out his ideal policy, was now forced to descend
to the practical. Agreeable as it would have been to take these two men
and bump their heads together, he realized that such a course would be
a deviation from the main issue. The important thing was to ascertain
what they had done with the loot, and to this inquiry he now directed
his remarks.

"Where's that stuff?" he asked.

"Stuff?" said Chimp.

"You know what I mean. Those things you stole from the Hall."

Chimp, who had just discovered that he was standing between Mr. Molloy
and John, swiftly skipped back a pace. This caused Mr. Molloy to skip
back, too. John regarded this liveliness with a smouldering disfavour.

"Stand still!" he said.

Chimp stood still. Mr. Molloy, who had succeeded in getting behind him
again, stood stiller.

"Well?" said John. "Where are the things?"

Even after the most complete rout on a stricken battle field a beaten
general probably hesitates for an instant before surrendering his
sword. And so now, obvious though it was that there was no other course
before them but confession, Chimp and Soapy remained silent for a
space. Then Chimp, who was the first to catch John's eye, spoke hastily.

"They're in Worcester."

"Whereabouts in Worcester?"

"At the depôt."

"What depôt?"

"There's only one, isn't there?"

"Do you mean the station?"

"Sure. The station."

"They're in the Left Luggage place at the station in Worcester," said
Mr. Molloy. He spoke almost cheerfully, for it had suddenly come to
him that matters were not so bad as he had supposed them to be, and
that there was still an avenue unclosed which might lead to a peaceful
settlement. "And you've got the ticket in your pocket."

John stared.

"That ticket is for a bag my uncle sent the chauffeur to leave at Shrub
Hill."

"Sure. And the stuff's inside it."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you what I mean," said Mr. Molloy.

"Atta-boy!" said Chimp faintly. He, too, had now become aware of the
silver lining. He sank upon the bed, and so profound was his relief
that the ends of his moustache seemed to spring to life again and cease
their drooping.

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Molloy, "I'll tell you what I mean. It's about
time you got hep to the fact that that old uncle of yours is one of
the smoothest birds this side of God's surging Atlantic Ocean. He
was sitting in with us all along, that's what he was doing. He said
those heirlooms had never done him any good and it was about time they
brought him some money. It was all fixed that Chimpie here should swipe
them and then I was to give the old man a cheque and he was to clean up
on the insurance, besides. That was when he thought I was a millionaire
that ran a museum over in America and was in the market for antiques.
But he got on to me, and then he started in to double-cross us. He took
the stuff out of where we'd put it and slipped it over to the depôt at
Worcester, meaning to collect it when he got good and ready. But the
chauffeur gave the ticket to you, and you came over here, and Chimpie
doped you and locked you up."

"And you can't do a thing," said Chimp.

"No, sir," agreed Mr. Molloy, "not a thing, not unless you want to
bring that uncle of yours into it and have him cracking rocks in the
same prison where they put us."

"I'd like to see that old bird cracking rocks, at that," said Chimp
pensively.

"So would I like to see him cracking rocks," assented Mr. Molloy
cordially. "I can't think of anything I'd like better than to see him
cracking rocks. But not at the expense of me cracking rocks, too."

"Or me," said Chimp.

"Or you," said Mr. Molloy, after a slight pause. "So there's the
position, Mr. Carroll. You can go ahead and have us pinched, if you
like, but just bear in mind that if you do there's going to be one of
those scandals in high life you read about. Yes, sir, real front-page
stuff."

"You bet there is," said Chimp.

"Yes, sir, you bet there is," said Mr. Molloy.

"You're dern tooting there is," said Chimp.

"Yes, sir, you're dern tooting there is," said Mr. Molloy.

And on this note of perfect harmony the partners rested their case and
paused, looking at John expectantly.

John's reaction to the disclosure was not agreeable. It is never
pleasant for a spirited young man to find himself baffled, nor is it
cheering for a member of an ancient family to discover that the head of
that family has been working in association with criminals and behaving
in a manner calculated to lead to rock-cracking.

Not for an instant did it occur to him to doubt the story. Although the
Messrs. Twist and Molloy were men whose statements the prudent would
be inclined to accept as a rule with reserve, on this occasion it was
evident that they were speaking nothing but the truth.

"Say, listen," cried Chimp, alarmed. He had been watching John's face
and did not like the look of it. "No rough stuff!"

John had been contemplating none. Chimp and his companion had ceased
to matter, and the fury which was making his face rather an unpleasant
spectacle for two peace-loving men shut up in a small room with him
was directed exclusively against his uncle Lester. Rudge Hall and its
treasures were sacred to John; and the thought that Mr. Carmody, whose
trust they were, had framed this scheme for the house's despoilment was
almost more than he could bear.

"It isn't us you ought to be sore at," urged Mr. Molloy. "It's that old
uncle of yours."

"Sure it is," said Chimp.

"Sure it is," echoed Mr. Molloy. Not for a long time had he and his old
friend found themselves so completely in agreement. "He's the guy you
want to soak it to."

"I'll say he is," said Chimp.

"I'll say he is," said Mr. Molloy. "Say listen, let me tell you
something. Something that'll make you feel good. I happen to know that
old man Carmody is throwing the wool over those insurance people's eyes
by offering a reward for the recovery of that stuff. A thousand pounds.
He told me so himself. If you want to get him good and sore, all you've
got to do is claim it. He won't dare hold out on you."

"Certainly he won't," said Chimp.

"Certainly he won't," said Mr. Molloy. "And will that make him good and
sore!"

"Will it!" said Chimp.

"Will it!" said Mr. Molloy.

"Wake me up in the night and ask me," said Chimp.

"Me, too," said Mr. Molloy.

Their generous enthusiasm seemed to have had its effect. The ferocity
faded from John's demeanour. Something resembling a smile flitted
across his face, as if some pleasing thought was entertaining him. Mr.
Molloy relaxed his tension and breathed again. Chimp, in his relief,
found himself raising a hand to his moustache.

"I see," said John slowly.

He passed his fingers thoughtfully over his unshaven chin.

"Is there a car in your garage?" he asked.

"Sure there's a car in my garage," said Chimp. "Your car."

"What!"

"Certainly."

"But that girl went off in it."

"She sent it back."

So overwhelming was the joy of these tidings that John found himself
regarding Chimp almost with liking. His car was safe after all. His
Arab Steed! His Widgeon Seven!

Any further conversation after this stupendous announcement would,
he felt, be an anti-climax. Without a word he darted to the door and
passed through, leaving the two partners staring after him blankly.

"Well, what do you know about that?" said Chimp.

Mr. Molloy's comment on the situation remained unspoken, for even as
his lips parted for the utterance of what would no doubt have been a
telling and significant speech, there came from the corridor outside a
single, thunderous "Oo-er!" followed immediately by a sharp, smacking
sound, and then a noise that resembled the delivery of a ton of coals.

Mr. Molloy stared at Chimp. Chimp stared at Mr. Molloy.

"Gosh!" said Chimp, awed.

"Gosh!" said Mr. Molloy.

"That was Flannery!" said Chimp, unnecessarily.

"'Was,'" said Mr. Molloy, "is right."

It was not immediately that either found himself disposed to leave
the room and institute inquiries--or more probably, judging from that
titanic crash, a post-mortem. When eventually they brought themselves
to the deed and crept palely to the head of the stairs they were
enabled to see, resting on the floor below, something which from
its groans appeared at any rate for the moment to be alive. Then
this object unscrambled itself and, rising, revealed the features of
Sergeant-Major Flannery.

Mr. Flannery seemed upset about something.

"Was it you, sir?" he inquired in tones of deep reproach. "Was it you,
Mr. Twist, that unlocked that Case's door?"

"I wanted to have a talk with him," said Chimp, descending the stairs
and gazing remorsefully at his assistant.

"I have the honour to inform you," said Mr. Flannery formally, "that
the Case has legged it."

"Are you hurt?"

"In reply to your question, sir," said Mr. Flannery in the same formal
voice, "I _am_ hurt."

It would have been plain to the most casual observer that the man was
speaking no more than the truth. How in the short time at his disposal
John had managed to do it was a mystery which baffled both Chimp and
his partner. An egg-shaped bump stood out on the Sergeant-Major's
forehead like a rocky promontory, and already he was exhibiting one of
the world's most impressive black eyes. The thought that there, but
for the grace of God, went Alexander Twist filled the proprietor of
Healthward Ho with so deep a feeling of thankfulness that he had to
clutch at the banister to support himself.

A similar emotion was plainly animating Mr. Molloy. To have been
shut up in a room with a man capable of execution like that--a man,
moreover, nurturing a solid and justifiable grudge against him, and to
have escaped uninjured was something that seemed to him to call for
celebration. He edged off in the direction of the study. He wanted a
drink, and he wanted it quick.

Mr. Flannery, pressing a hand to his wounded eye, continued with the
other to hold Chimp rooted to the spot. It was an eye that had much of
the quality of the Ancient Mariner's, and Chimp did not attempt to move.

"If you had listened to my advice, sir," said Mr. Flannery coldly,
"this would never have happened. Did I or did I not say to you, Mr.
Twist, did I or did I not repeatedly say that it was imperative and
essential that that Case be kept securely under lock and key? And then
you go asking for it, sir, begging for it, pleading for it, by opening
the door and giving him the opportunity to roam the 'ouse at his sweet
will and leg it when so disposed. I 'ad just reached the 'ead of the
stairs when I see him. I said Oo-er! I said, and advanced smartly at
the double to do my duty, that being what I am paid for, an' what I
draw my salary for doing, and the next thing I know I'd copped it
square in the eye and him and me was rolling down the stairs together.
I bumped my 'ead against the woodwork at the bottom or it may have
been that chest there, and for a moment all went black and I knew no
more." Mr. Flannery paused. "All went black and I knew no more," he
repeated, liking the phrase. "And when I came to, as the expression is,
the Case had gone. Where he is now, Mr. Twist, 'oo can say? Murdering
the patients as like as not or...."

He broke off. Outside on the drive, diminishing in the distance,
sounded the engine of a car.

"That's him," said Mr. Flannery. "He's gorn!" He brooded for a moment.

"Gorn!" he resumed. "Gorn to range the countryside and maybe 'ave 'alf
a dozen assassinations on his conscience before the day's out. And
you'll be responsible, Mr. Twist. On that Last Awful Day, Mr. Twist,
when you and I and all of us come up before the Judgment Seat, do
you know what'll 'appen? I'll tell you what'll 'appen. The Lord God
Almighty will say, angry-like, ''Oo's responsible for all these corpses
I see laying around 'ere?' and 'E'll look at you sort of sharp, and
you'll have to rise up and say, 'It was me! I'm responsible for them
corpses.' If I'd of done as Sergeant-Major Flannery repeatedly told me
and kep' that Case under lock and key, as the saying is, there wouldn't
have been none of these poor murdered blokes.' That's what you'll 'ave
to rise and say, Mr. Twist. I will now leave you, sir, as I wish to go
into the kitchen and get that young Rosa to put something on this nasty
bruise and eye of mine. If you 'ave any further instructions for me,
Mr. Twist, I'll be glad to attend to them. If not, I'll go up to my
room and have a bit of a lay-down. Good morning, sir."

The Sergeant-Major had said his say. He withdrew in good order along
previously prepared lines of retreat. And Chimp, suddenly seized with
the same idea which had taken Soapy to the study, moved slowly off down
the passage.

In the study he found Mr. Molloy, somewhat refreshed, seated at the
telephone.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Playing the flute," replied Mr. Molloy shortly.

"Who are you 'phoning to?"

"Dolly, if you want to know. I've got to tell her about all this
business going bloo-ey, haven't I? I've got to break it to her that
after all her trouble and pains she isn't going to get a cent out of
the thing, haven't I?"

Chimp regarded his partner with disfavour. He wished he had never seen
Mr. Molloy. He wished he might never see him again. He wished he were
not seeing him now.

"Why don't you go up to London and tell her?" he demanded sourly.
"There's a train in twenty minutes."

"I'd rather do it on the 'phone," said Mr. Molloy.




                              CHAPTER XIV


                                   I

The sun, whose rays had roused Sergeant-Major Flannery from his
slumbers at Healthward Ho that morning, had not found it necessary to
perform the same office for Lester Carmody at Rudge Hall. In spite of
the fact that he had not succeeded in getting to sleep till well on in
the small hours, Mr. Carmody woke early. There is no alarm clock so
effective as a disturbed mind.

And Mr. Carmody's mind was notably disturbed. On the previous night he
had received shock after shock, each more staggering than the last.
First, Bolt, the chauffeur, had revealed the fact that he had given the
fateful ticket to John. Then Sturgis, after letting fall in the course
of his babblings the information that Mr. Molloy knew that John had the
ticket, had said that that young man, when last seen, had been going
off in the company of Dolly Molloy. And finally, John had not only
failed to appear at dinner but was not to be discovered anywhere on the
premises at as late an hour as midnight.

In these circumstances, it is scarcely to be wondered at that Mr.
Carmody's repose was not tranquil. To one who, like himself, had had
the advantage of hearing the views of the Molloy family on the virtues
of knock-out drops there could be no doubt as to what had happened.
John, suspecting nothing, must have allowed himself to be lured into
the trap, and by this time the heirlooms of Rudge Hall were probably in
London.

Having breakfasted, contrary to the habit of years, quickly and
sketchily, Mr. Carmody, who had haunted the stable yard till midnight,
went there again in the faint hope of finding that his nephew had
returned. But except for Emily, who barked at him, John's room was
empty. Mr. Carmody wandered out into the grounds, and for some half
hour paced the gravel paths in growing desolation of soul. Then, his
tortured nerves becoming more and more afflicted by the behaviour of
one of the under-gardeners who, full of the feudal spirit, insisted on
touching his hat like a clockwork toy every time his employer passed,
he sought refuge in his study.

It was there, about one hour later, that John found him.

Mr. Carmody's first emotion on beholding his long-lost nephew was one
of ecstatic relief.

"John!" he cried, bounding from his chair.

Then, chilling his enthusiasm, came the thought that there might be no
occasion for joy in this return. Probably, he reflected, John, after
being drugged and robbed of the ticket, had simply come home in the
ordinary course of events. After all, there would have been no reason
for those scoundrels to detain him. Once they had got the ticket, John
would have ceased to count.

"Where have you been?" he asked in a flatter voice.

A rather peculiar smile came and went on John's face.

"I spent the night at Healthward Ho," he said. "Were you worried about
me?"

"Extremely worried."

"I'm sorry. Doctor Twist is a hospitable chap. He wouldn't let me go."

Mr. Carmody, on the point of speaking, checked himself. His position,
he suddenly saw, was a delicate one. Unless he were prepared to lay
claim to the possession of special knowledge, which he certainly was
not, anything in the nature of agitation on his part must inevitably
seem peculiar. To those without special knowledge Mr. Twist, Mr.
Molloy, and Dolly were ordinary, respectable persons and there was no
reason for him to exhibit concern at the news that John had spent the
night at Healthward Ho.

"Indeed?" he said carefully.

"Yes," said John. "Most hospitable he was. I can't say I liked him,
though."

"No?"

"No. Perhaps what prejudiced me against him was the fact of his having
burgled the Hall the night before last."

More and more Mr. Carmody was feeling, as Ronnie Fish had no doubt
felt at the concert, that he had been forced into playing a part to
which he was not equal. It was obviously in the rôle that at this point
he should register astonishment, and he did his best to do so. But
the gasp he gave sounded so unconvincing to him that he hastened to
supplement his words.

"What! What are you saying? Doctor Twist?"

"Doctor Twist."

"But.... But...!"

"It's come as quite a surprise to you, hasn't it?" said John. And for
the first time since this interview had begun Mr. Carmody became alive
to the fact that in his nephew's manner there was a subtle something
which he did not like, something decidedly odd. This might, of course,
simply be due to the circumstance that the young man's chin was
bristling with an unsightly growth and his eyes red about the rims.
Perhaps it was merely his outward appearance that gave the suggestion
of the sinister. But Mr. Carmody did not think so. He noted now that
John's eyes, besides being red, were strangely keen. Their expression
seemed, to his sensitive conscience, accusing. The young man was
looking at him--yes, undoubtedly the young man was looking at him most
unpleasantly.

"By the way," said John, "Bolt gave me this ticket yesterday to give to
you. I forgot about it till it was too late."

The relatively unimportant question of whether or not there was a
peculiar look in his nephew's eyes immediately ceased to vex Mr.
Carmody. All he felt at this instant was an almost suffocating elation.
He stretched out an unsteady hand.

"Oh, yes," he heard himself saying. "That ticket. Quite so, of course.
Bolt left a bag for me at Shrub Hill Station."

"He did."

"Give me the ticket."

"Later," said John, and put it back in his pocket.

Mr. Carmody's elation died away. There was no question now about
the peculiar look in his companion's eye. It was a grim look. A
hard, accusing look. Not at all the sort of look a man with a tender
conscience likes to have boring into him.

"What--what do you mean?"

John continued to regard him with that unpleasantly fixed stare.

"I hear you have offered a reward of a thousand pounds for the recovery
of those things that were stolen, Uncle Lester."

"Er--yes. Yes."

"I'll claim it."

"What!"

"Uncle Lester," said John, and his voice made a perfect match for his
eye, "before I left Healthward Ho I had a little talk with Mr. Twist
and his friend Mr. Molloy. They told me a lot of interesting things. Do
you get my meaning, or shall I make it plainer?"

Mr. Carmody, who had bristled for a moment with the fury of a
parsimonious man who sees danger threatening his cheque book, sank
slowly back into his chair like a balloon coming to rest.

"Good!" said John. "Write out a cheque and make it payable to Colonel
Wyvern."

"Colonel Wyvern?"

"I am passing the reward on to him. I have a particular reason for
wanting to end all that silly trouble between you two, and I think this
should do it. I know he is simply waiting for you to make some sort of
advance. So you're going to make an advance--of a thousand pounds."

Mr. Carmody gulped.

"Wouldn't five hundred be enough?"

"A thousand."

"It's such a lot of money."

"A nice round sum," said John.

Mr. Carmody did not share his nephew's views as to what constituted
niceness and roundness in a sum of money, but he did not say so. He
sighed deeply and drew his cheque book from its drawer. He supposed in
a vague sort of way that he ought to be feeling grateful to the young
man for not heaping him with reproaches and recrimination, but the
agony of what he was about to do prevented any such emotion. All he
could feel was that dull, aching sensation which comes to most of us
when we sit down to write cheques for the benefit of others.

It was as if some malignant fate had brooded over him, he felt, ever
since this business had started. From the very first, life had been
one long series of disbursements. All the expense of entertaining the
Molloy family, not to mention the unspeakable Ronnie Fish.... The car
going to and fro between Healthward Ho and Rudge at six shillings per
trip.... The five hundred pounds he had had to pay to get Hugo out of
the house.... And now this appalling, devastating sum for which he had
just begun to write his cheque. Money going out all the time! Money ...
money ... money ... And all for nothing!

He blotted the cheque and held it out.

"Don't give it to me," said John. "You're coming with me now to Colonel
Wyvern's house, to hand it to him in person with a neat little speech."

"I shan't know what to say."

"I'll tell you."

"Very well."

"And after that," said John, "you and he are going to be like two
love-birds." He thumped the desk. "Do you understand? Love-birds."

"Very well."

There was something in the unhappy man's tone as he spoke, something so
crushed and forlorn that John could not but melt a little. He paused at
the door. It crossed his mind that he might possibly be able to cheer
him up.

"Uncle Lester," he said, "how did you get on with Sergeant-Major
Flannery at Healthward Ho?"

Mr. Carmody winced. Unpleasant memories seemed to be troubling him.

"Just before I left," said John, "I blacked his eye and we fell
downstairs together."

"Downstairs?"

"Right down the entire flight. He thumped his head against an oak
chest."

On Mr. Carmody's drawn face there hovered for an instant a faint
flickering smile.

"I thought you'd be pleased," said John.


                                  II

Colonel Wyvern hitched the celebrated eyebrows into a solid mass across
the top of his nose, and from beneath them stared hideously at Jane,
his parlour maid. Jane had just come into the morning room, where he
was having a rather heated conversation with his daughter, Patricia,
and had made the astounding statement that Mr. Lester Carmody was
waiting in his front hall.

"Who?" said Colonel Wyvern, rumbling like a thunder cloud.

"Sir, please, sir, Mr. Carmody."

"Mr. Carmody?"

"And Mr. Carroll, sir."

Pat, who had been standing by the French windows, caught in her breath
with a little click of her firm white teeth.

"Show them in, Jane," she said.

"Yes, miss."

"I will not see that old thug," said Colonel Wyvern.

"Show them in, Jane," repeated Pat, firmly. "You must, Father," she
said as the door closed. "He may have come to apologize about that
dynamite thing."

"Much more likely he's come about that business of yours. Well, I've
told you already and I say it again that nothing will induce me..."

"All right, Father. We can talk about that later. I'll be out in the
garden if you want me."

She went out through the French windows, and almost simultaneously the
door opened and John and his uncle came in.

John paused in the doorway, gazing eagerly toward the garden.

"Was that Pat?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon," said Colonel Wyvern.

"Was that Pat I thought I caught a glimpse of, going into the garden?"

"My daughter has just gone into the garden," said Colonel Wyvern with
cold formality.

"Oh?" said John. He seemed about to follow her but a sudden bark from
the owner of the house brought him to a halt.

"Well?" said Colonel Wyvern, and the monosyllable was a verbal pistol
shot. It brought John back instantly from dreamland, and, almost more
than the spectacle of his host's eyebrows, told him that life was stern
and life was earnest.

"Oh, yes," he said.

"What do you mean, Oh yes?"

John advanced to the table, meeting the Colonel's gaze with a steady
eye. There is this to be said for being dosed with knock-out drops and
shut up in locked rooms and having to take your meals through bars from
the hands of a sergeant-major whom only a mother could love--it fits
a normally rather shy and diffident young man for the battles of life
as few other experiences would be able to fit him. The last time he
and this bushy-eyebrowed man had met, John had quailed. But now mere
eyebrows meant nothing to him. He felt hardened, like one who has been
through the furnace.

"I suppose you are surprised to see us here?"

"More surprised than pleased."

"My uncle was anxious to have a few words with you."

"I have not the slightest desire...."

"If you will just let me explain...."

"I repeat, I have not the slightest desire...."

"SIT DOWN!" said John.

Colonel Wyvern sat down, rather as if he had been hamstrung. The action
had been purely automatic, the outcome of that involuntary spasm of
acquiescence which comes upon everybody when someone speaks very
loudly and peremptorily in their presence. His obsequiousness was only
momentary, and he was about to inquire of John what the devil he meant
by speaking to him like that, when the young man went on.

"My uncle has been very much concerned," said John, "about that
unfortunate thing that happened in the park some weeks ago. It has been
on his mind."

The desire to say something almost inhumanely sarcastic and the
difficulty of finding just the right words caused the Colonel to miss
his chance of interrupting at this point. What should have been a
searing retort became a mere splutter.

"He feels he behaved badly to you. He admits freely that in grabbing
you round the waist and putting you in between him and that dynamite he
acted on the spur of an impulse to which he should never have yielded.
He has been wondering ever since how best he might heal the breach.
Haven't you, Uncle Lester?"

Mr. Carmody swallowed painfully.

"Yes."

"He says 'Yes'," said John, relaying the information to its receiving
station. "You have always been his closest friend, and the thought that
there was this estrangement has been preying on my uncle's mind. This
morning, unable to endure it any longer, he came to me and asked my
advice. I was very glad to give it him. And I am still more glad that
he took it. My uncle will now say a few words.... Uncle Lester!"

Mr. Carmody rose haltingly from his seat. He was a man who stood on the
verge of parting with one thousand pounds in cool cash, and he looked
it. His face was haggard, and his voice, when he contrived to speak,
thin and trembling.

"Wyvern, I...."

"... thought ..." prompted John.

"I thought," said Mr. Carmody, "that in the circumstances...."

"It would be best...."

"It would be best if...."

Words--and there should have been sixty-three more of them--failed Mr.
Carmody. He pushed a slip of paper across the table and resumed his
seat, a suffering man.

"I fail to...." began Colonel Wyvern. And then his eye fell on the slip
of paper, and pomposity slipped from him like breath off a razor blade.
"What--what----?" he said.

"Moral and intellectual damages," said John. "My uncle feels he owes it
to you."

Silence fell upon the room. The Colonel had picked up the cheque and
was scrutinizing it as if he had been a naturalist and it some rare
specimen encountered in the course of his walks abroad. His eyebrows,
disentangling themselves and moving apart, rose in an astonishment he
made no attempt to conceal. He looked from the cheque to Mr. Carmody
and back again.

"Good God!" said Colonel Wyvern.

With a sudden movement he tore the paper in two, burst into a crackling
laugh and held his hand out.

"Good God!" he cried jovially. "Do you think I want money? All I ever
wanted was for you to admit you were an old scoundrel and murderer, and
you've done it. And if you knew how lonely it's been in this infernal
place with no one to speak to or smoke a cigar with...."

Mr. Carmody had risen, in his eyes the look of one who sees visions and
beholds miracles. He gazed at his old friend in awe. Long as he had
known him, it was only now that he realized his true nobility of soul.

"Wyvern!"

"Carmody," said Colonel Wyvern, "how are the pike?"

"The pike?" Mr. Carmody blinked, still dazed. "Pike?"

"In the moat. Have you caught the big one yet?"

"Not yet."

"I'll come up and try for him this afternoon, shall I?"

"Yes."

"He says 'Yes'," said John, interpreting.

"And only just now," said Colonel Wyvern, "I was savaging my daughter
because she wanted to marry into your family!"

"What's that?" cried Mr. Carmody, and John clutched the edge of the
table. His heart had given a sudden, ecstatic leap, and for an instant
the room had seemed to rock about him.

"Yes," said Colonel Wyvern. He broke into another of his laughs, and
John could not help wondering where Pat had got that heavenly tinkle of
silver bells which served her on occasion when she was amused. Not from
her father's side of the family.

"Bless my soul!" said Mr. Carmody.

"Yes," said Colonel Wyvern. "She came to me just before you arrived and
told me that she wanted to marry your nephew Hugo."




                              CHAPTER XV


                                   I

Some years before, in pursuance of his duties as a member of the
English Rugby Football fifteen, it had become necessary for John one
rainy afternoon in Dublin to fall on the ball at a moment when five or
six muscular Irish forwards full of Celtic enthusiasm were endeavouring
to kick it. Until this moment he had always ranked that as the most
unpleasant and disintegrating experience of his life.

His fingers tightened their clutch on the table. He found its support
grateful. He blinked, once very quickly as if he had just received a
blow in the face, and then a second time more slowly.

"Hugo?" he said.

He felt numbed, just as he had felt numbed in Dublin when what had
appeared to be a flock of centipedes with cleated boots had made him
the object of their attentions. All the breath had gone out of him, and
though what he was suffering was at the present more a dull shock than
actual pain, he realized dimly that there would be pain coming shortly
in full measure.

"Hugo?" he said.

Faintly blurred by the drumming of the blood in his ears, there came to
him the sound of his uncle's voice. Mr. Carmody was saying that he was
delighted. And the utter impossibility of remaining in the same room
with a man who could be delighted at the news that Pat was engaged to
Hugo swept over John like a wave. Releasing his grip on the table, he
laid a course for the French windows and, reaching them, tottered out
into the garden.

Pat was walking on the little lawn, and at the sight of her his
numbness left John. He seemed to wake with a start, and, waking, found
himself in the grip of a great many emotions which, after seething and
bubbling for a while, crystallized suddenly into a white-hot fury.

He was hurt all over and through and through, but he was so angry that
only subconsciously was he aware of this. Pat was looking so cool
and trim and alluring, so altogether as if it caused her no concern
whatever that she had made a fool of a good man, raising his hopes only
to let them fall and encouraging him to dream dreams only to shatter
them, that he felt he hated her.

She turned as he stepped onto the grass, and they looked at one another
in silence for a moment. Then John, in a voice which was strangely
unlike his own, said, "Good morning."

"Good morning," said Pat, and there was silence again.

She did not attempt to avoid his eye--the least, John felt, that she
could have done in the circumstances. She was looking straight at him,
and there was something of defiance in her gaze. Her chin was tilted.
To her, judging from her manner, he was not the man whose hopes she had
frivolously raised by kissing him that night on the Skirme, but merely
an unwelcome intruder interrupting a pleasant reverie.

"So you're back?" she said.

John swallowed what appeared to be some sort of obstruction half-way
down his chest. He was anxious to speak, but afraid that, if he spoke,
he would stammer. And a man on an occasion like this does not wish to
give away by stammering the fact that he is not perfectly happy and
debonair and altogether without a care in the world.

"I hear you're engaged to Hugo," he said, speaking carefully and
spacing the syllables so that they did not run into each other as they
showed an inclination to do.

"Yes."

"I congratulate you."

"You ought to congratulate him, oughtn't you, and just say to me that
you hope I'll be happy?"

"I hope you will be happy," said John, accepting this maxim from the
Book of Etiquette.

"Thanks."

"Very happy."

"Thanks."

There was a pause.

"It's--a little sudden, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"When did Hugo get back?"

"This morning. His letter arrived by the first post, and he came in
right on top of it."

"His letter?"

"Yes. He wrote asking me to marry him."

"Oh?"

Pat traced an arabesque on the grass with the toe of her shoe.

"It was a beautiful letter."

"Was it?"

"Very. I didn't think Hugo was capable of it."

John remained for a moment without speaking. He searched his mind for
care-free, debonair remarks, and found it singularly short of them.

"Hugo's a splendid chap," he contrived to say at length.

"Yes--so bright!"

"Yes."

"Nice-looking fellow."

"Yes."

"A thoroughly good chap."

"Yes."

John found that he had exhausted the subject of Hugo's qualities.
He relapsed into a gray silence and half thought of treading on an
offensively cheerful worm which had just appeared beside his shoe and
seemed to be asking for it.

Pat stifled a little yawn.

"Did you have a nice time yesterday?" she asked carelessly.

"Not so very nice," said John. "I dare say you heard that we had a
burglary up at the Hall? I went off to catch the criminals and they
caught me!"

"What!"

"I was fool enough to let myself be drugged, and when I woke up I was
locked in a room with bars on the windows. I only got out an hour or so
ago."

"Johnnie!"

"However, it all ended happily. I've got back the stuff that was
stolen."

"But, Johnnie! I thought you had gone off picnicking with that Molloy
girl."

"It may have been her idea of picnicking. She was one of the gang.
Quite the leading spirit, I gather."

He had lowered his eyes, wondering once more whether it would not be
judicious to put it across that worm after all, when an odd choking
sound caused him to look up. Pat's mouth had opened, and she was
staring at him wide-eyed. And if she had ever looked more utterly
beautiful and marvellous, John could not remember the occasion.
Something seemed to clutch at his throat, and the garden, seen
indistinctly through a mist, danced a few steps in a tentative sort of
way, as if it were trying out something new that had just come over
from America.

And then, as the mist cleared, John found that he and Pat were not, as
he had supposed, alone. Standing beside him was a rugged and slightly
unkempt person clad in a bearskin which had obviously not been made to
measure, in whom he recognized at once that Stone Age Ancestor of his
who had given him a few words of advice the other night on the path
leading to the boathouse.

The Ancestor was looking at him reproachfully. In appearance he was
rather like Sergeant-Major Flannery, and when he spoke it was with that
well-remembered voice.

"Oo-er," said the Ancestor, peevishly twiddling a flint-axe in his
powerful fingers. "Now you see, young fellow, what's happened or
occurred or come about, if I may use the expression, through your not
doing what I told you. Did I or did I not repeatedly urge and advise
you to be'ave towards this girl in the manner which 'as been tested
and proved the correct one by me and all the rest of your ancestors in
the days when men were men and knew how to go about these matters? Now
you've lost her, whereas if you'd done as I said...."

"Stay!" said a quiet, saintly voice, and John perceived that another
form had ranged itself beside him.

"Still, maybe it's not too late even now...."

"No, no," said the newcomer, and John was now able to see that this was
his Better Self, "I really must protest. Let us, please, be restrained
and self-effacing. I deprecate these counsels of violence."

"Tested and proved correct...." inserted the Ancestor. "I'm giving him
good advice, that's what I'm doing. I'm pointing out to 'im, as you may
say, the proper method."

"I consider your advice subversive to a degree," said Better Self
coldly, "and I disapprove of your methods. The obviously correct thing
for this young man to do in the circumstances in which he finds himself
is to accept the situation like a gentleman. This girl is engaged to
another man, a good-looking, bright young man, the heir to a great
estate and an excellent match...."

"Mashed potatoes!" said the Stone Age Ancestor coarsely. "The 'ole
thing 'ere, young fellow, is you just take this girl and grab her
and 'old 'er in your arms, as the saying is, and never mind how many
bright, good-looking young men she's engaged to. 'Strewth! When I was
in me prime you wouldn't have found me 'esitating. You do as I say, me
lad, and you won't regret it. Just you spring smartly to attention and
grab 'er with both 'ands in a soldierly manner."

"Oh, Johnnie, Johnnie, Johnnie!" said Pat, and her voice was a wail.
Her eyes were bright with dismay, and her hands fluttered in a helpless
manner which alone would have been enough to decide a man already
swaying toward the methods of the good old days when cavemen were
cavemen.

John hesitated no longer. Hugo be blowed! His Better Self be blowed!
Everything and everybody be blowed except this really excellent old
gentleman who, though he might have been better tailored, was so
obviously a mine of information on what a young man should know.
Drawing a deep breath and springing smartly to attention, he held out
his arms in a soldierly manner, and Pat came into them like a little
boat sailing into harbour after a storm. A faint receding sigh told
him that his Better Self had withdrawn discomfited, but the sigh was
drowned by the triumphant approval of the Ancestor.

"Oo-er," boomed the Ancestor thunderously.

"So this is how it feels!" said John to himself.

"Oh, Johnnie!" said Pat.

The garden had learned that dance now. It was simple once you got the
hang of it. All you had to do, if you were a tree, was to jump up and
down, while, if you were a lawn, you just went round and round. So the
trees jumped up and down and the lawn went round and round, and John
stood still in the middle of it all, admiring it.

"Oh, Johnnie," said Pat. "What on earth shall I do?"

"Go on just like you are now."

"But about Hugo, I mean."

Hugo? Hugo? John concentrated his mind. Yes, he recalled now, there had
been some little difficulty about Hugo. What was it? Ah, yes.

"Pat," he said, "I love you. Do you love me?"

"Yes."

"Then what on earth," demanded John, "did you go and do a silly thing
like getting engaged to Hugo for?"

He spoke a little severely, for in some mysterious fashion all the
awe with which this girl had inspired him for so many years had left
him. His inferiority complex had gone completely. And it was due, he
gathered, purely and solely to the fact that he was holding her in his
arms and kissing her. At any moment during the last half-dozen years
this childishly simple remedy had been at his disposal and he had not
availed himself of it. He was astonished at his remissness, and his
feeling of gratitude, toward that Ancestor of his in the baggy bearskin
who had pointed out the way, became warmer than ever.

"But I thought you didn't care a bit for me," wailed Pat.

John stared.

"Who, me?"

"Yes."

"Didn't care for you?"

"Yes."

"You thought I didn't care for you?"

"Well, you had promised to take me to Wenlock Edge and you never turned
up and I found you had gone out in your car with that Molloy girl.
Naturally I thought...."

"You shouldn't have."

"Well, I did. And so when Hugo's letter came it seemed such a wonderful
chance of showing you that I didn't care. And now what am I to do? What
can I say to Hugo?"

It was a nuisance for John to have to detach his mind from what really
mattered in life to trivialities like this absurd business of Hugo, but
he supposed the thing, if only to ease Pat's mind, would have to be
given a little attention.

"Hugo thinks he's engaged to you?"

"Yes."

"Well, he isn't."

"No."

"Then that," said John, seeing the thing absolutely clearly, "is all
we've got to tell him."

"You talk as if it were so simple!"

"So it is. What's hard about it?"

"I wish you had it to do instead of me!"

"But of course I'll do it," said John. It astonished him that she
should have contemplated any other course. Naturally, when the great
strong man becomes engaged to the timid, fluttering little girl he
takes over all her worries and handles in his efficient, masculine way
any problem that may be vexing her.

"Would you really, Johnnie?"

"Certainly."

"I don't feel I can look him in the face."

"You won't miss much. Where is he?"

"He went off in the direction of the village."

"Carmody Arms," diagnosed John. "I'll go and tell him at once." And he
strode down the garden with strong, masterful steps.


                                  II

Hugo was not in the Carmody Arms. He was standing on the bridge over
the Skirme, his elbows resting on the parapet, his eyes fixed on the
flowing water. For a suitor recently accepted by--presumably--the girl
of his heart, he looked oddly downcast. His eye, when he turned at the
sound of his name, was the eye of a fish that has had trouble.

"Hullo, John, old man," he said in a toneless voice.

John began to feel his way into the subject he had come to discuss.

"Nice day," he said.

"What is?" said Hugo.

"This."

"I'm glad you think so. John," said Hugo, attaching himself sombrely
to his cousin's coat sleeve, "I want your advice. In many ways you're
a stodgy sort of a Gawd-help-us, but you're a level-headed kind of old
bird, at that, and I want your advice. The fact is, John, believe me or
believe me not, I've made an ass of myself."

"How's that?"

"I've gone and got engaged to Pat."

Having exploded this bombshell, Hugo leaned against the parapet and
gazed at his cousin with a certain moody satisfaction.

"Yes?" said John.

"You don't seem much surprised," said Hugo, disappointed.

"Oh, I'm astonished," said John. "How did it happen?"

Hugo, who had released his companion's coat sleeve, now reached out for
it again. The feel of it seemed to inspire him.

"It was that bloke Bessemer's wedding that started the whole trouble,"
he said. "You remember I told you about Ronnie's man, Bessemer."

"I remember you said he had remarkable ears."

"Like airplane wings. Nevertheless, in spite of that, he got married
yesterday. The wedding took place from Ronnie's flat."

"Yes?"

Hugo sighed.

"Well, you know how it is, John, old man. There's something about a
wedding, even the wedding of a gargoyle like Bessemer, that seems
to breed sentimentality. It may have been the claret cup. I warned
Ronnie from the first against the claret cup. A noxious drink. But he
said--with a good deal of truth, no doubt--that if I thought he was
going to waste champagne on a blighter who was leaving him in the lurch
without a tear I was jolly well mistaken. So we more or less bathed in
claret cup at the subsequent festivities, and it wasn't more than an
hour afterward when something seemed to come over me all in a rush."

"What?"

"Well, a sort of aching, poignant feeling. All the sorrows of the world
seemed to be laid out in front of me in a solid mass."

"That sounds more like lobster."

"It may have been the lobster," conceded Hugo. "But I maintain that the
claret cup helped. Well, I just sat there, bursting with pity for the
whole human race, and then suddenly it all seemed in a flash, as it
were, to become concentrated on Pat."

"You burst with pity for Pat?"

"Yes. You see, an idea suddenly came to me. I thought about you and Pat
and how Pat, in spite of all my arguments, wouldn't look at you, and
all at once there flashed across me what I took to be the explanation.
Something seemed to whisper to me that the reason Pat couldn't see you
with a spy glass was that all these years she had been secretly pining
for me."

"What on earth made you think that?"

"Looking back on it now, in a clear and judicial frame of mind, I can
see that it was the claret cup. That and the general ghastly, soppy
atmosphere of a wedding. I sat straight down, John, old man, and I
wrote a letter to Pat, asking her to marry me. I was filled with a sort
of divine pity for the poor girl."

"Why do you call her the poor girl? She wasn't married to you."

"And then I had a moment of sense, so I thought that before I posted
the letter I'd go for a stroll and think it over. I left the letter on
Ronnie's desk, and got my hat and took a turn round the Serpentine.
And, what with the fresh air and everything, pretty soon I found Reason
returning to her throne. I had been on the very brink, I realized, of
making a most consummate chump of myself. Here I was, I reflected, on
the threshold of a career, when it was vitally necessary that I should
avoid all entanglements, and concentrate myself wholly on my life
work, deliberately going out of my way to get myself hitched up. I'm
not saying anything against Pat. Don't think that. We've always been
the best of pals, and if I were backed into a corner and made to marry
someone I'd just as soon it was her. It was the principle of the thing
that was all wrong, if you see what I mean. Entanglements. I had to
keep myself clear of them."

Hugo paused and glanced down at the water of the Skirme, as if debating
the advisability of throwing himself into it. After a while he resumed.

"I was bunging a bit of wedding cake to the Serpentine ducks when I
got this flash of clear vision, and I turned straight round and legged
it back to the flat to destroy that letter. And when I got there the
letter had gone. And the bride's mother, a stout old lady with a cast
in the left eye, who was still hanging about the kitchen, finishing
up the remains of the wedding feast, told me without a tremor in her
voice, with her mouth full of lobster mayonnaise, that she had given it
to Bessemer to post on his way to the station."

"So there you were," said John.

"So there," agreed Hugo, "I was. The happy pair, I knew, were to spend
the honeymoon at Bexhill, so I rushed out and grabbed a taxi and
offered the man double fare if he would get me to Victoria Station in
five minutes. He did it with seconds to spare, but it was too late.
The first thing I saw on reaching the platform was the Bexhill train
pulling out. Bessemer's face was visible in one of the front coaches.
He was leaning out of the window, trying to detach a white satin shoe
which some kind friend had tied to the door handle. And I slumped back
against a passing porter, knowing that this was the end."

"What did you do then?"

"I went back to Ronnie's flat to look up the trains to Rudge. Are
you aware, John, that this place has the rottenest train service in
England? After the five-sixteen, which I'd missed, there isn't anything
till nine-twenty. And, what with having all this on my mind and getting
a bit of dinner and not keeping a proper eye on the clock, I missed
that, too. In the end, I had to take the 3 A.M. milk train. I won't
attempt to describe to you what a hell of a journey it was, but I got
to Rudge at last, and, racing like a hare, rushed to Pat's house. I had
a sort of idea I might intercept the postman and get him to give me my
letter back."

"He wouldn't have done that."

"He didn't have to, as things turned out. Just as I got to the house,
he was coming out after delivering the letters. I think I must have
gone to sleep then, standing up. At any rate, I came to with a deuce of
a start, and I was leaning against Pat's front gate, and there was Pat
looking at me, and I said, 'Hullo!' and she said, 'Hullo! and then she
said in rather a rummy sort of voice that she'd got my letter and read
it and would be delighted to marry me."

"And then?"

"Oh, I said, 'Thanks awfully,' or words to that effect, and tooled off
to the Carmody Arms to get a bite of breakfast. Which I sorely needed,
old boy. And then I think I fell asleep again, because the next thing
I knew was old Judwin, the coffee-room waiter, trying to haul my head
out of the marmalade. After that I came here and stood on this bridge,
thinking things over. And what I want to know from you, John, is what
is to be done."

John reflected.

"It's an awkward business."

"Dashed awkward. It's imperative that I oil out, and yet I don't want
to break the poor girl's heart."

"This will require extraordinarily careful handling."

"Yes."

John reflected again.

"Let me see," he said suddenly, "when did you say Pat got engaged to
you?"

"It must have been around nine, I suppose."

"You're sure?"

"Well, that would be the time the first post would be delivered,
wouldn't it?"

"Yes, but you said you went to sleep after seeing the postman."

"That's true. But what does it matter, anyway?"

"It's most important. Well, look here, it was more than ten minutes
ago, wasn't it?"

"Of course it was."

John's face cleared.

"Then that's all right," he said. "Because ten minutes ago Pat got
engaged to me."


                                  III

A light breeze was blowing through the garden as John returned. It
played with sunshine in Pat's hair as she stood by the lavender hedge.

"Well?" she said eagerly.

"It's all right," said John.

"You told him?"

"Yes."

There was a pause. The bees buzzed among the lavender.

"Was he----?"

"Cut up?"

"Yes."

"Yes," said John in a low voice. "But he took it like a sportsman. I
left him almost cheerful."

He would have said more, but at this moment his attention was diverted
by a tickling sensation in his right leg. A suspicion that one of the
bees, wearying of lavender, was exploring the surface of his calf, came
to John. But, even as he raised a hand to swat the intruder, Pat spoke
again.

"Johnnie."

"Hullo?"

"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking."

John's suspicion grew. It felt like a bee. He believed it was a bee.

"Thinking? What about?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Yes."

"What were you thinking about me?"

"Only that you were the most wonderful thing in the world."

"Pat!"

"You are, you know," said Pat, examining him gravely. "I don't know
what it is about you, and I can't imagine why I have been all
these years finding it out, but you're the dearest, sweetest, most
angelic...."

"Tell me more," said John.

He took her in his arms, and time stood still.

"Pat!" whispered John.

He was now positive that it was a bee, and almost as positive that it
was merely choosing a suitable spot before stinging him. But he made no
move. The moment was too sacred.

After all, bee stings were good for rheumatism.


                                THE END