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 thePostcame 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 andsavoir fairewho 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.
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 thumbanda 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 domean 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 roundmethat 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.