 CHAPTER VIII. CONFIDENCES ON THE LAKE. Miss Halliday, announced the efficient Baxter, removing another letter from its envelope and submitting it to a swift keen scrutiny, arrives at about three to-day. She is catching the twelve-fifty train. He placed the letter on the pile beside his plate, and, having decapitated an egg, peered sharply into its interior, as if hoping to surprise guilty secrets. For it was the breakfast-hour, and the members of the house-party, scattered up and down the long table, were fortifying their tissues against another day. An agreeable scent of bacon floated over the scene like a benediction. Lord Emsworth looked up from the seed-catalog in which he was immersed. For some time past his enjoyment of the meal had been marred by a vague sense of something missing, and now he knew what it was. "'Coffee,' he said, not violently, but in the voice of a good man oppressed. "'I want coffee. Why have I no coffee? Constance, my dear, I should have coffee. Why have I none?' "'I'm sure I gave you some,' said Lady Constance, brightly presiding over the beverages at the other end of the table.' "'Then where is it?' demanded his lordship, clenchingly. Baxter, almost regretfully it seemed, gave the egg a clean bill of health, and turned in his able way to cope with this domestic problem. "'Your coffee is behind the catalog you are reading, Lord Emsworth. You propped the catalog against your cup.' "'Did I? Did I? Why so I did? Bless my soul!' His lordship, relieved, took an invigorating sip. "'What were you just saying, then, my dear fellow?' "'I have had a letter from Miss Halliday,' said Baxter. She writes that she is catching the twelve-fifteen train at Paddington, which means that she should arrive at market-blendings at about three.' "'Who?' asked Miss Peavey, in a low, thrilling voice, ceasing for a moment to peck at her plate of kejuri. "'Is Miss Halliday?' "'The exact question I was about to ask myself,' said Lord Emsworth. "'Baxter, my dear fellow, who is Miss Halliday?' Baxter, with a stifled sigh, was about to refresh his employer's memory, when Smith anticipated him. Smith had been consuming toast and marmalade with his customary languid grace, and up till now had firmly checked all attempts to engage him in conversation. "'Miss Halliday,' he said, "'is a very old and valued friend of mine. We two have, so to speak, pulled the Gowans fine. I had been hoping to hear that she had been sighted on the horizon.' The effect of these words on two of the company was somewhat remarkable. Baxter, hearing them, gave such a violent start that he spilled half the contents of his cup, and Freddie, who had been flitting like a butterfly among the dishes on the sideboard, and had just decided to help himself to scrambled eggs, deposited a liberal spoonful on the carpet, where it was found, and salvaged a moment later by Lady Constance's spaniel. Smith did not observe these phenomena, for he had returned to his toast and marmalade. He thus missed encountering perhaps the keenest glance that had ever come through Rupert Baxter's spectacles. It was not a protracted glance, but while it lasted it was like the ray from an oxyacetylene blowpipe. A friend of yours, said Lord Elmsworth. Indeed! Of course, Baxter, I remember now. Miss Halliday is the young lady who is coming to catalogue the library. What a delightful task, cooed Miss P.V., to live among the stored-up thoughts of dead and gone genius. You had better go down and meet her, my dear fellow, said Lord Elmsworth. At the station you know, he continued, clarifying his meaning. She will be glad to see you. I was about to suggest it myself, said Smith. Though why the library needs cataloging, said his lordship, returning to a problem which still vexed his soul, when he had leisure to give a thought to it. I can't, however— He finished his coffee and rose from the table. A stray shaft of sunlight had fallen provocatively on his bald head, and sunshine always made him restive. Are you going to your flowers, Lord Elmsworth? Asked Miss P.V. Eh? What? Ah, yes. Oh, yes. Going to have a look at those labelias. I will accompany you, if I may, said Smith. Eh? Why? Certainly, certainly. I have always held, said Smith, that there is no finer tonic than a good look at a labelia immediately after breakfast. As I believe, recommend it. Oh, I say, said Freddie hastily, as he reached the door. Can I have a couple of words with you a bit later on? A thousand, if you wish it, said Smith, you will find me somewhere out there in the great open spaces where men are men. He included the entire company in a benevolent smile and left the room. How charming he is, sighed Miss P.V. Don't you think so, Mr. Baxter? The efficient Baxter seemed for a moment to find some difficulty in replying. Oh, very, he said, but not heartily. And such a soul! It shines on that wonderful brow of his, doesn't it? He has a good forehead, said Lady Constance. But I wish he wouldn't wear his hair so short. Somehow it makes him seem unlike a poet. Freddie, alarmed, swallowed a mouthful of scrambled egg. Oh, he's a poet all right, he said hastily. Well, really Freddie, said Lady Constance, peaked. I think we hardly need you to tell us that. No, no, of course. But what I mean is, in spite of his wearing his hair short, you know. I ventured to speak to him of that yesterday, said Miss P.V. And he said he'd rather expected to be wearing it even shorter very soon. Freddie, cried Lady Constance, with asperity. What are you doing? A brown lake of tea was filling the portion of the tablecloth immediately opposite the honourable Frederick Threepwood. Like the efficient Baxter a few minutes before, sudden emotion had caused him to upset his cup. II The scrutiny of his lordship's lebelias had pawled upon Smith at a fairly early stage in the proceedings, and he was sitting on the terrace wall enjoying a meditative cigarette when Freddie found him. Ah, comrade Threepwood, said Smith. Welcome to Blanding's castle. You said something about wishing to have speech with me, if I remember rightly. The honourable Freddie shot a nervous glance about him and seated himself on the wall. I say, he said, I wish you wouldn't say things like that. Like what, comrade Threepwood? What you said to the P.V. woman. I recollect having a refreshing chat with Miss P.V. yesterday afternoon, said Smith. But I cannot recall saying anything calculated to bring the blush of shame to the cheek of modesty. What observation of mine was it that meets with your censure? Why, that's stuff about expecting to wear your hair shorter. If you're going to go about saying that sort of thing, well, dash it, you might as well give the whole ballet show away at once and have done with it. Smith knotted gravely. Your generous heat, comrade Threepwood, is not unjustified. It was undoubtedly an error of judgment. If I have a fault, which I am not prepared to admit, it is a perhaps un-gentlemanly desire to pull that curious female's leg. A stronger man than myself might well find it hard to battle against the temptation. However, now that you have called it to my notice, it shall not occur again. In future I will moderate the persifilage. Cheer up, therefore, comrade Threepwood, and let us see that merry smile of yours, of which I hear such good reports. The appeal failed to alleviate Freddie's gloom. He smote morosely at a fly, which had settled on his furrowed brow. I'm getting as jumpy as a cat, he said. Fight against this unmanly weakness urged Smith. As far as I can see, everything is going along nicely. I'm not so sure. I believe that blighter Baxter suspects something. What do you think he suspects? Why that there's something fishy about you? Smith winced. I would be infinitely obliged to you, comrade Threepwood, if you would not use that particular adjective. It awakens old memories, all very painful. But let us go more deeply into this matter, for you interest me strangely. Why do you think that Cheeriold Baxter, a delightful personality if ever I met one, suspects me? It's the way he looks at you. I know what you mean, but I attribute no importance to it. As far as I have been able to ascertain during my brief visit, he looks at everybody and everything in precisely the same way. Every last night at dinner I observed him glaring with keen mistrust at about as blameless and innocent a plate of clear soup as was ever dished up. He then proceeded to shovel it down with quite undisguised relish. So possibly you are all wrong about his motive for looking at me like that. It may be admiration. Well, I don't like it. Or from an aesthetic point of view, do I. But we must bear these things manfully. We must remind ourselves that it is Baxter's misfortune, rather than his fault, that he looks like a deceptic lizard. Freddie was not to be consoled. His gloom deepened. And it isn't only Baxter. What else is on your mind? The whole atmosphere of the place is getting rummy if you know what I mean. He bent towards Smith and whispered pallidly, I say, I believe that new housemaid is a detective. Smith eyed him patiently. Which new housemaid, comrade Threepwood? Brooding as I do, pretty tensely all the time, on deep and wonderful subjects. I have little leisure to keep tab on the domestic staff. Is there a new housemaid? Yes, Susan her name is. Susan, Susan, that sounds all right, just the name a real housemaid would have. Did you ever, demanded Freddie earnestly, see a real housemaid sweep under a bureau? Does she? Caught her at it in my room this morning. But isn't it a trifle farfetched to imagine that she is a detective? Why should she be a detective? Well, I've seen a dashed lot of films where the housemaid or the parlor maid or what not were detectives. Makes a fellow uneasy. Fortunately, said Smith, there is no necessity to remain in a state of doubt. I can give you an unfailing method by means of which you may discover if she is what she would have us believe her. What's that? Kiss her. Kiss her? Precisely. Go to her and say, Susan, you're a very pretty girl. But she isn't. We will assume for purposes of argument that she is. Go to her and say, Susan, you are a very pretty girl. What would you do if I were to kiss you? If she is a detective, she will reply, how dare you, sir, or possibly more simply, sir. Whereas if she is the genuine housemaid I believe her to be, and only sweeps under bureaus out of pure zeal, she will giggle and remark, oh, don't be silly, sir. You appreciate the distinction? How do you know? My grandmother told me, Comrade Threepwood, my advice to you, if the state of doubt you are in is affecting your enjoyment of life, is to put the matter to the test at the earliest convenient opportunity. I'll think it over, said Freddie dubiously. Silence fell upon him for a space, and Smith was well content to have it so. He had no specific need of Freddie's prattle who helped him enjoy the pleasant sunshine and the scent of Angus Macalester's innumerable flowers. Presently, however, his companion was off again. But now there was a different note in his voice. The alarm seemed to have given place to something which appeared to be embarrassment. He coughed several times, and his neatly shod feet, writhing in self-conscious circles, scraped against the wall. I say— You have our ear once more, Comrade Threepwood, said Smith politely. I say what I really came out here to talk about was something else. I say are you really a pal of Miss Halliday's? Assuredly, why? I say a rosy blush mantled the honourable Freddie's young cheek. I say I wish you would put in a word for me, then. Put in a word for you? Freddie gulped. I love her dash it. A noble emotion, said Smith courteously. When did you feel it coming on? I've been in love with her for months, but she won't look at me. That, of course, agreed Smith, must be a disadvantage. Yes, I imagine that would stick the gaff into the course of true love to no small extent. I mean, won't take me seriously and all that. Laughs at me, don't you know, when I propose? What would you do? I would stop proposing, said Smith, having given the matter thought. I can't. Tut, tut, said Smith severely. And in case the expression is new to you, what I mean is, poo-poo. Just say to yourself, from now on I will not start proposing until after lunch. That done, it will be an easy step to do no proposing during the afternoon. And by degrees you will find that you can give it up all together. Once you have conquered the impulse for the after breakfast proposal, the rest will be easy. The first one of the day is always the hardest to drop. I believe she thinks me a mere butterfly, said Freddie, who had not been listening to this most valuable homily. Smith slid down from the wall and stretched himself. Why, he said, are butterflies so often described as mere? I have heard them so called a hundred times, and I cannot understand the reason. Well, it would, no doubt, be both interesting and improving to go into the problem. But at this point, comrade Three-Pood, I leave you. I would brood. Yes, but I say, will you? Will I what? Put in a word for me. If, said Smith, the subject crops up in the course of the chit-chat, I shall be delighted to spread myself with no little vim on the theme of your fine qualities. He melted away into the shrubbery, just in time to avoid Miss P.V., who broke in on Freddie's meditations a moment later, and kept him company till lunch. Three. The twelve-fifty train drew up with a grinding of breaks at the platform of Martin Blandings, and Smith, who had been wiling away the time of waiting by squandering money which he could ill afford on the slot machine which supplied butterscotch, turned and submitted it to a grave scrutiny. Eve Halliday got out of a third-class compartment. Welcome to our village, Miss Halliday, said Smith, advancing. Eve regarded him with frank astonishment. What are you doing here? She asked. Lord Emsworth was kind enough to suggest that, as we were such old friends, I should come down in the car and meet you. Are we old friends? Surely have you forgotten all those happy days in London? There was only one. True, but think how many meetings we crammed into it. Are you staying at the castle? Yes, and what is more, I am the life and soul of the party. Have you anything in the shape of luggage? I nearly always take luggage when I am going to stay a month or so in the country. It's at the back somewhere. I will look after it. You will find the car outside. If you care to go and sit in it, I will join you in a moment. And lest the time hangs heavy on your hands, take this. Butterscotch, de-alicious, and, so I understand, wholesome. I bought it specially for you. A few minutes later, having arranged for the trunk to be taken to the castle, Smith emerged from the station and found Eve drinking in the beauties of the town of market-blendings. What a delightful old place, she said, as they drove off. I almost wish I lived here. During the brief period of my stay at the castle, said Smith, the same thought has occurred to me. It is the sort of place where one feels that one could gladly settle down into a peaceful retirement and grow a honey-coloured beard. We looked at her with solemn admiration. Women are wonderful, he said. And why, Mr. Bones, are women wonderful, asked Eve. I was thinking at the moment of your appearance. You have just stepped off the train after a four-hour journey, and you are as fresh and blooming as, if I may coin a simile, a rose. How do you do it? When I arrived I was deep in alluvial deposits and have only just managed to scrape them off. When did you arrive? On the evening of the day on which I met you. But it's so extraordinary that you should be here, I mean. I was wondering if I should ever see you again. Eve coloured a little and went on rather hurriedly. I mean, it seems so strange that we should always be meeting like this. Fate, probably, said Smith. I hope it isn't going to spoil your visit. Oh, no. I could have done with a trifle more emphasis on the last word, said Smith gently. Forgive me for criticising your methods of voice production, but surely you can see how much better it would have sounded spoken thus. Oh, no! Eve laughed. Very well, then, she said. Oh, no! Much better, said Smith. Much better. He began to see that it was going to be difficult to introduce a eulogy of the honourable Freddie Threepwood into this conversation. I'm very glad you're here, said Eve, resuming the talk after a slight pause. Because, as a matter of fact, I'm feeling just the least bit nervous. Nervous? Why? This is my first visit to a place of this size. The car had turned in at the big stone gates, and they were bowling smoothly up the winding drive. Through an avenue of trees to the right, the great bulk of the castle had just appeared, gray and imposing against the sky. The afternoon sun glittered on the lake beyond it. Is everything very stately? Not at all. We are very homely folk, we of Blanding's castle. We go about, simple and unaffected, dropping gracious words all over the place. Lord Emsworth didn't overaw you, did he? Oh, he's a dear. And, of course, I know Freddie quite well. Smith nodded. If she knew Freddie quite well, there was naturally no need to talk about him. He did not talk about him, therefore. Have you known Lord Emsworth long, asked Eve? I met him for the first time the day I met you. Good gracious, Eve stared. And he invited you to the castle? Smith smoothed his waistcoat. Strange, I agree. One can only account for it, can one not, by supposing that I radiate some extraordinary attraction. Have you noticed it? No. No, said Smith, surprised. Ah, well, he went on tolerantly. No doubt it will flash upon you quite unexpectedly, sooner or later, like a thunderbolt or something. I think you're terribly conceited. Not at all, said Smith. Conceited? No, no. Success has not spoiled me. Have you had any success? None, whatever. The car stopped. We get down here, said Smith, opening the door. Here? Why? Because if we go up to the house, you will infallibly be pounced upon and set to work by one Baxter, a delightful fellow, but a wail for toil. I propose to conduct you on a tour round the grounds, and then we will go for a row on the lake. You will enjoy that. You seem to have mapped out my future for me. I have, said Smith, with emphasis, and in the monocled eye that met hers, Eve detected so beaming a glance of esteem and admiration, that she retreated warily into herself, and endeavored to be frigid. I'm afraid I haven't time to wander about the grounds, she said aloofly. I must be going and seeing Mr. Baxter. Baxter, said Smith, is not one of the natural beauties of the place. Time enough to see him when you are compelled to. We are now in the Southern Pleasants, or the West Home Park or something. Note the refined way the deer are cropping the grass. All the ground on which we are now standing is of historic interest. Oliver Cromwell went through here in 1550. The record has since been lowered. I haven't time leaving the Pleasants on our left. We proceed to the Northern Message. The dandelions were imported from Egypt by the Ninth Earl. Well, anyhow, said Eve mutinously, I won't come on the lake. You will enjoy the lake, said Smith. The Newts are of the famous old Blandings Strain. They were introduced, along with the water-beatles, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Lord Emsworth, of course, holds menorial rights over the mosquito-swatting. Eve was a girl of high and haughty spirit, and as such, strongly resented being appropriated and having her movements directed by one who, in spite of his specious claims, was almost a stranger. But somehow she found her companion's placid assumption of authority hard to resist. Almost meekly she accompanied him through meadow and shrubbery over velvet lawns and past gleaming flower-beds, and her indignation evaporated as her eyes absorbed the beauty of it all. She gave a little sigh. If market Blandings had seemed a place in which one could dwell happily, Blandings Castle was a paradise. Before us now, said Smith, lies the celebrated U. Alley, so called from the U's which hem it in. Speaking in my capacity of guide to the estate, I may say that when we have turned this next corner, you will see a most remarkable sight. And they did. Before them, as they passed in under the boughs of an aged tree, lay a green vista, faintly dappled with stray shafts of sunshine. In the middle of this vista the honourable Frederick Threepwood was embracing a young woman in the dress of a housemaid. Smith was the first of the little group to recover from the shock of this unexpected encounter. The honourable Freddie, the last. That unfortunate youth, meeting Eve's astonished eye as he raised his head, froze where he stood, and remained with his mouth open until she had disappeared, which she did a few moments later, led away by Smith, who, as he went, directed at his young friend a look in which surprise, pain, and reproof were so nicely blended that it would have been hard to say which predominated. All that a spectator could have said with certainty was that Smith's finer feelings had suffered a severe blow. A painful scene, he remarked to Eve as he drew her away in the direction of the house. But we must strive to be charitable. He may have been taking a fly out of her eye, or teaching her jujitsu. He looked at her searchingly. You seem less revolted, he said, than one might have expected. This argues a sweet, shall we say, angelic disposition, and confirms my already high opinion of you. Thank you. Not at all. Mark you, said Smith, I don't think that this sort of thing is a hobby of comrade Threepwood's. He probably has many other ways of passing his spare time. Remember that before you pass judgment upon him. Also young blood, and all that sort of thing. I haven't any intention of passing judgment upon him. It doesn't interest me what Mr. Threepwood does, either in his spare time or out of it. His interest in you, on the other hand, is fast. I forgot to tell you before, but he loves you. He asked me to mention it, if the conversation happened to veer round in that direction. I know he does, said Eve ruefully. And does the fact stir no chord in you? I think he's a nuisance. That, said Smith cordially, is the right spirit. I like to see it. Very well, then, we will discard the topic of Freddie, and I will try to find others that may interest, elevate, and amuse you. We are now approaching the main buildings. I am no expert in architecture, so cannot tell you all I could wish about the façade. But you can see there is a façade, and in my opinion, for what it is worth, a jolly good one. We approach by a sweeping gravel walk. I am going in to report to Mr. Baxter, said Eve, with decision. It's too absurd. I mustn't spend my time strolling about the grounds. I must see Mr. Baxter at once. Smith inclined his head courteously. Nothing easier. That big open window there is the library. Doubtless, comrade Baxter, is somewhere inside, toiling away among the archives. Yes, but I can't announce myself by shouting to him. Assuredly not, said Smith. No need for that at all. Leave it to me. He stooped and picked up a large flower pot, which stood under the terrace wall. And before Eve could intervene, had tossed it lightly through the open window. A muffled thud, followed by a sharp exclamation from within, caused a faint smile of gratification to illumine his solemn countenance. He is in. I thought he would be. Ah, Baxter, he said graciously, as the upper half of a body surmounted by a spectacled face, framed itself suddenly in the window. A pleasant sunny afternoon. How is everything? The efficient Baxter struggled for utterance. You looked like the blessed demosal gazing down from the gold bar of heaven, said Smith genially. Baxter, I want to introduce you to Miss Halliday. She arrived safely after a somewhat fatiguing journey. You will like Miss Halliday. If I had a library, I could not wish for a more courteous, obliging, and capable catalogist. This striking and unsolicited testimonial made no appeal to the efficient Baxter. His mind seemed occupied with other matters. Did you throw that flower pot? He demanded coldly. You will no doubt, said Smith, wish on some later occasion to have a nice long talk with Miss Halliday in order to give her an outline of her duties. I have been showing her the grounds, and am about to take her for a row on the lake. But after that she will, and I know I may speak for Miss Halliday in this matter, be entirely at your disposal. Did you throw that flower pot? I look forward confidently to the pleasantest of associations between you and Miss Halliday. You will find her, said Smith warmly, a willing assistant, a tireless worker. Did you—but now, said Smith, I must be tearing myself away. In order to impress Miss Halliday I put on my best suit when I went to meet her. For a row upon the lake something simpler in pale flannel is indicated. I shall only be a few minutes, he said to Eve. Would you mind meeting me at the boathouse? I am not coming on the lake with you. At the boathouse in, say, six and a quarter minutes, said Smith with a gentle smile, and pressed into the house like a long-legged Mustang. Eve remained where she stood, struggling between laughter and embarrassment. The efficient Baxter was still leaning wrathfully out of the library window, and it began to seem a little difficult to carry on an ordinary conversation. The problem of what she was to say, in order to continue the scene in an agreeable manner, was solved by the arrival of Lord Emsworth, who pottered out from the bushes with a rake in his hand. He stood, eyeing Eve for a moment. Then memory seemed to wake. Eve's appearance was easier to remember, possibly, than some of the things which his lordship was want to forget. He came forward beamingly. Ah, there you are, miss—oh, dear me, I'm really afraid I have forgotten your name. My memory is excellent as a rule, but I cannot remember names. Miss Halliday! Of course, of course! Baxter, my dear fellow, he proceeded, citing the watcher at the window. This is Miss Halliday. Mr. McTodd, said the efficient one sourly, has already introduced me to Miss Halliday. Has he? Doost civil of him, doost civil of him. But where is he? inquired his lordship, scanning the surrounding scenery with a vague eye. He went into the house, after, said Baxter in a cold voice, throwing a flower-pot at me. Doing what? He threw a flower-pot at me, said Baxter, and vanished moodily. Lord Emsworth stared at the open window, then turned to Eve for enlightenment. Why did Baxter throw a flower-pot at McTodd, he said? And he went on ventilating an even deeper question. Where the deuce did he get a flower-pot? There are no flower-pots in the library. Eve, on her side, was also seeking information. Did you say his name was McTodd? Lord Emsworth? No, no, Baxter. That was Baxter, my secretary. No, I mean the one who met me at the station. Baxter did not meet you at the station. The man who met you at the station, said Lord Emsworth, speaking slowly, for women are so apt to get things muddled. Was McTodd? He's staying here. Constance asked him to, and I'm bound to say, when I first heard of it, I was not any too well pleased. I don't like poets as a rule, but this fellow's so different from the other poets I've met. Different altogether. And, said Lord Emsworth, with not a little heat, I strongly object to Baxter throwing flower-pots at him. I won't have Baxter throwing flower-pots at my guests, he said firmly. For Lord Emsworth, though occasionally a little vague, was keenly alive to the ancient traditions of his family regarding hospitality. "'Is Mr. McTodd a poet?' said Eve, her heart beating. "'Eh? Oh, yes, yes, there seems to be no doubt about that. A Canadian poet. Apparently they have poets out there. And,' demanded his lordship, ever a fair-minded man. "'Why not? A remarkable growing country. I was there in the year ninety-eight. Or was it?' he added, thoughtfully passing a muddy hand over his chin, and leaving a rich brown stain. "'Ninety-nine. I forget. My memory isn't good for dates. If you will excuse me, Miss—Miss Halliday, of course. If you will excuse me, I must be leaving you. I have to see McAllister, my head-gardener. An obstinate man—a Scotsman. If you go into the house, my sister Constance will give you a cup of tea. I don't know what the time is, but I suppose there will be tea soon. Never take it, myself.' Mr. McTodd asked me to go for a row on the lake. "'On the lake, eh? On the lake?' said his lordship, as if this was the last place in the neighborhood where he would have expected to hear of people proposing to row. Then he brightened. "'Of course, yes. On the lake. I think you will like the lake. I take a dip there myself every morning before breakfast. I find it good for the health and appetite. I plunge in, and swim perhaps fifty yards, and then return.' Lord Emsworth suspended the gossip from the training camp in order to look at his watch. "'Dear me,' he said. "'I must be going. McAllister has been waiting fully ten minutes. Goodbye, then, for the present, Miss—er—erg—goodbye.' And Lord Emsworth ambled off. On his face that look of tense concentration which it always wore when interviews with Angus McAllister were in prospect. The look which stern warriors wear when about to meet a foeman worthy of their steel. V. There was a cold expression in Eve's eyes as she made her way slowly to the boathouse. The information which he had just received had come as a shock, and she was trying to adjust her mind to it. When Miss Clarkson had told her of the unhappy conclusion to her old school friend's marriage to Ralston Mac Todd, she had immediately, without knowing anything of the facts, arrayed herself loyally on Cynthia's side, and condemned the unknown Mac Todd uncompromisingly and without hesitation. It was many years since she had seen Cynthia, and their friendship might almost have been said to have lapsed. But Eve's affection, when she had once given it, was a durable thing capable of surviving long separation. She had loved Cynthia at school, and she could feel nothing but animosity towards anyone who had treated her badly. She eyed the glittering water of the lake from under lowered brows, and prepared to be frigid and hostile when the villain of the piece should arrive. It was only when she heard footsteps behind her, and turned to perceive Smith hurrying up, radiant and gleaming flannel, that it occurred to her for the first time that there might have been faults on both sides. She had not known Smith long, it was true, but already his personality had made a somewhat deep impression on her, and she was loath to believe that he could be the callous scoundrel of her imagination. She decided to suspend judgment until they should be out in mid-water, and in a position to discuss the matter without interruption. I am a little late, said Smith, as he came up. I was detained by our young friend, Freddie. He came into my room and started talking about himself at the very moment when I was tying my tie, and needed every ounce of concentration for that delicate task. The recent, painful episode appeared to be weighing on his mind to some extent. He helped Eve into the boat, and started to row. I consoled him as best I could, by telling him that it would probably have made you think all the more highly of him. I ventured the suggestion that girls worship the strong, rough, dashing type of man, and, after I had done my best to convince him that he was a strong, rough, dashing man, I came away. By now, of course, he may have had a relapse into despair. So if you happen to see a body bobbing about in the water as we row along, it will probably be Freddie's. Never mind about Freddie. I don't, if you don't, said Smith agreeably. Very well, then, if we see a body, we will ignore it. He rowed on a few strokes. Let me if I am wrong, he said, resting his oars and leaning forward. But you appear to be brooding about something. If you will give me a clue, I will endeavour to assist you to grapple with any little problem which is troubling you. What's the matter?" Eve, questioned thus directly, found it difficult to open the subject. She hesitated a moment, and let the water ripple through her fingers. I have only just found out your name, Mr. McTodd. She said at length. Smith nodded. It is always thus, he said. Passing through this life we meet a fellow mortal, chat a while, and part, and the last thing we think of doing is to ask him in a manly and direct way what his label is. There is something oddly furtive and shame-faced in one's attitude towards people's names. It is as if we shrank from probing some hideous secret. We say to ourselves, this pleasant stranger may be a snooks or a buggins. Better not inquire. But in my case it was a great shock to me. Now there, said Smith, I cannot follow you. I wouldn't call McTodd a bad name, as names go. Don't you think there is a sort of highland strength about it? It sounds to me like something out of The Lady of the Lake, or Lay of the Last Minstrel. The stag at Eve had drunk its fill, adooned the glen, bant the hill, and welcomed with a friendly nod old Scotland's pride, young-laired McTodd. You don't think it has a sort of wild romantic ring? I ought to tell you, Mr. McTodd, said Eve, that I was at school with Cynthia. Death was not a young man who often found himself at a loss. But this remark gave him a bewildered feeling such as comes in dreams. It was plain to him that this delightful girl thought she had said something serious, even impressive. But for the moment it did not seem to him to make sense. He sparred warily for time. Indeed, with Cynthia that must have been jolly. The harmless observation appeared to have the worst effect upon his companion. The frown came back to her face. Oh, don't speak in that flippant, sneering way, she said. It's so cheap. Smith, having nothing to say, remained silent, and the boat drifted on. Eve's face was delicately pink, for she was feeling extraordinarily embarrassed. There was something in the solemn gaze of the man before her which made it difficult for her to go on. But with the stout heartedness which was one of her characteristics, she stuck to her task. After all, she said, however you may feel about her now, you must have been fond of poor Cynthia at one time, or I don't see why you should have married her. Smith, for want of conversation, had begun rowing again. The start he gave at these remarkable words caused him to skim the surface of the water with the left door in such a manner as to send a liberal pint into Eve's lap. He started forward with apologies. Oh, never mind about that, said Eve impatiently. It doesn't matter. Mr. MacTodd, she said, and there was a note of gentleness in her voice. I do wish you would tell me what the trouble was. Smith stared at the floor of the boat in silence. He was wrestling with a feeling of injury. True, he had not during their brief conversation at the senior conservative club specifically inquired of Mr. MacTodd whether he was a bachelor. But somehow he felt that the man should have dropped some hint as to his married state. True again, Mr. MacTodd had not asked him to impersonate him at Blanding's castle. And yet, undeniably, he felt that he had a grievance. Smith's was an orderly mind. He had proposed to continue the pleasant relations which had begun between Eve and himself, seeing to it that every day they became a little pleasanter, until eventually, in due season, they should reach the point where it would become possible to lay heart and hand at her feet. For there was no doubt in his mind that in a world congested to overflowing with girls, Eve Halliday stood entirely alone. And now this infernal Cynthia had risen from nowhere to stand between them. Even a young man as liberally endowed with calm assurance as he was, might find it awkward to conduct his wooing with such a handicap as a wife in the background. Eve misinterpreted his silence. I suppose you are thinking that it is no business of mine. Smith came out of his thoughts with a start. No, no, not at all. You see, I'm devoted to Cynthia. And I like you. She smiled for the first time. Her embarrassment was passing. That is the whole point, she said. I do like you. And I'm quite sure that if you were really the sort of man I thought you when I first heard about all this, I shouldn't. The friend who told me about you and Cynthia made it seem as if the whole fault had been yours. I got the impression that you had been very unkind to Cynthia. I thought you must be a brute. And when Lord Emsworth told me who you were, my first impulse was to hate you. I think if you had come along just then I would have been rather horrid to you. But you were late, and that gave me time to think it over. And then I remembered how nice you have been to me. And I felt somehow that you must really be quite nice. And it occurred to me that there might be some explanation. And I thought that perhaps if you would let me interfere in your private affairs, and if things hadn't gone too far, I might do something to help. Try to bring you together, you know. She broke off, a little confused, for now that the words were out, she was conscious of a return of her former shyness. Even though she was an old friend of Cynthia's, there did seem something insufferably officious in this meddling. And when she saw the look of pain on her companion's face, she regretted that she had spoken. Naturally she thought he was offended. In supposing that Smith was offended she was mistaken. Internally he was glowing with a renewed admiration for all those beautiful qualities in her which he had detected before they had ever met, at several yards range across the street from the window of the Drone's Club smoking-room. His look of pain was due to the fact that, having now had time to grapple with the problem, he had decided to dispose of the Cynthia once and for all. He proposed to eliminate her forever from his life. And the elimination of even such a comparative stranger seemed to him to call for a pained look. So he assumed one. That, he said gravely, would, I fear, be impossible. It is like you to suggest it, and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the kindness which has made you interest yourself in my troubles. But it is too late for any reconciliation. Cynthia and I are divorced. For a moment the temptation had come to him to kill the woman off with some wasting sickness, but this he resisted as tending towards possible future complications. He was resolved, however, that there should be no question of bringing them together again. He was disturbed to find Eve staring at him in amazement. Divorced? But how can you be divorced? It's only a few days since you and she were in London together. Smith ceased to wonder that Mr. Mac Todd had had trouble with his wife. The woman was a perfect pest. I used the term in a spiritual rather than a legal sense, he replied. True, there has been no actual decree, but we are separated beyond hope of reunion. He saw the distress in Eve's eyes and hurried on. There are things, he said, which it is impossible for a man to overlook, however broad-minded he may be. Love, Miss Halliday, is a delicate plant. It needs tending, nursing, assiduous fostering. This could not be done by throwing the breakfast bacon at a husband's head. What? Eve's astonishment was such that the word came out in a startled squeak. In the dish, said Smith sadly, Eve's blue eyes opened wide. Cynthia did that? On more than one occasion. Her temper in the mornings was terrible. I have known her lift the cat over two chairs and a settee with a single kick, and all because there were no mushrooms. But, but I can't believe it. Come over to Canada, said Smith, and I will show you the cat. Cynthia did that? Cynthia? Why, she was always the gentlest little creature. At school, you mean? Yes. That, said Smith, would I suppose be before she had taken to drink? Taken to drink? Smith was feeling happier. A passing thought did come to him that all this was perhaps a trifle rough on the absent Cynthia, but he mastered the unmanly weakness. It was necessary that Cynthia should suffer in the good cause. Already he had begun to detect in Eve's eyes the faint donnings of an angelic pity, and pity is recognized by all the best authorities as one of the most valuable emotions which your wooer can awaken. To drink, Eve repeated, with a little shudder. We lived in one of the dry provinces of Canada, and, as so often happens, that started the trouble. From the moment when she installed a private still, her downfall was swift. I have seen her, under the influence of homebrew, raged through the house like a devastating cyclone. I hate speaking like this of one who was your friend, said Smith, in a low vibrating voice. I would not tell these things to anyone but you. The world, of course, supposes that the entire blame for the collapse of our home was mine. I took care that it should be so. The opinion of the world matters little to me. But with you it is different. I should not like you to think badly of me, Miss Halliday. I do not make friends easily. I am a lonely man. But somehow it has seemed to me since we met that you and I might be friends. You stretched her hand out impulsively. Why, of course! Smith took her hand and held it far longer than was strictly speaking necessary. Thank you, he said. Thank you. He turned the nose of the boat to the shore and rode slowly back. I have suffered, said Smith gravely, as he helped her ashore. But if you will be my friend, I think that I may forget. They walked in silence up the winding path to the castle. Six. To Smith, five minutes later, as he sat in his room smoking a cigarette and looking dreamily out at the distant hills, there entered the honourable Frederick Threepwood, who, having closed the door behind him, tottered to the bed and uttered a deep and discordant groan. Smith, his mind thus rudely wrenched from pleasant meditations, turned, and regarded the gloomy youth with disfavour. At any other time, comrade Threepwood, he said politely, but with firmness, Certainly, but not now, I am not in the vein. What? said the honourable Freddie vacantly. I say that at any other time I shall be delighted to listen to your farmyard imitations, but not now. At the moment I am deep in thoughts of my own, and I may say frankly, I regard you as more or less of an excrescence. I want solitude, solitude. I am in a beautiful reverie, and your presence jars upon me somewhat profoundly. The honourable Freddie ruined the symmetry of his hair by passing his fingers feverishly through it. Don't talk so much, I never met a fellow like you for talking. Having rumpled his hair to the left, he went through it again and rumpled it to the right. I say, do you know what? You've jolly well got to clear out of here quick. He got up from the bed and approached the window, having done which he bent towards Smith and whispered in his ear, the games up. Smith withdrew his ear with a touch of hauteur, but he looked at his companion with a little more interest. He had feared, when he saw Freddie stagger in with such melodramatic despair, and amid so hollow a groan, that the topic on which he wished to converse was the already exhausted one of his broken heart. It now began to appear that weightier matters were on his mind. I fail to understand you, Comrade Threepwood, he said. The last time I had the privilege of conversing with you, you informed me that Susan, or whatever her name is, merely giggled and told you not to be silly when you embraced her. In other words, she is not a detective. What has happened since then to get you all worked up? Baxter. What has Baxter been doing? Only giving the whole belly show away to me, that's all, said Freddie feverishly. He clutched Smith's arm violently, causing that exquisite to utter a slight moan, and smooth out the wrinkles thus created in his sleeve. Listen, I've just been talking to the blighter. I was passing the library just now, when he popped out of the door and hauled me in. And dash it, he hadn't been talking two seconds before I realized that he had seen through the whole damn thing practically from the moment you got here. Though he doesn't seem to know that I've anything to do with it. Thank goodness. I should imagine not, if he makes you his confidant. Why did he do that, by the way? What made him select you as the recipient of his secrets? As far as I can make out, his idea was to form a gang, if you know what I mean. He said a lot of stuff about him and me being the only two able-bodied young men in the place, and we ought to be prepared to tackle you if you started anything. I see. And now tell me how our delightful friend ever happened to begin suspecting that I was not all I seemed to be. I had been flattering myself, that I had put the little deception over with complete success. Well, in the first place, dash it, that damn fellow Mac Todd, the real one, you know, sent a telegram saying that he wasn't coming. So it seemed rummy to Baxter, bang from the start, when you blew in all merry and bright. Ah! that was what they all meant by saying they were glad I had come after all. A phrase which at the moment I confess rather mystified me. And then you went and wrote in the P.V. Female's Autograph Book. In what way was that a false move? Why, that was the biggest bloomer on record as it has turned out, said Freddie vehemently. Baxter apparently keeps every letter that comes to the place on a file, and he'd skewered Mac Todd's original letter with the rest. I mean the one he wrote accepting the invitation to come here. And Baxter compared his handwriting with what you wrote in the P.V.'s album, and of course they weren't a damn bit alike. And that put the lid on it. Smith lit another cigarette, and drew at it thoughtfully. He realized that he had made a tactical error in underestimating the antagonism of the efficient one. Does he seem to have any idea why I have come to the castle? He asked. Any idea why dash it, the very first thing he said to me, was that you must have come to sneak Aunt Connie's necklace. In that case, why has he made no move till today? I should have supposed that he would have long since denounced me before as large an audience as he could assemble. Why this reticence? On the part of genial old Baxter. A crimson flush of chivalrous indignation spread itself over Freddie's face. He told me that, too. There seems to have been no reserves between comrade Baxter and yourself, and very healthy too, this spirit of confidence. What was his reason for abstaining from loosing the bomb? He said he was pretty sure you wouldn't try to do anything on your own. He thought you would wait till your accomplice arrived. And, damn him, cried Freddie heatedly. Do you know who he's got the infernal gall to think as your accomplice? Miss Halliday dash him. Smith smoked in thoughtful silence. Well, of course, now that this has happened, said Freddie. I suppose it's no good thinking of going on with the thing. You'd better pop off, what? If I were you, I'd leg it today and have your luggage sent on after you. Smith threw away his cigarette and stretched himself. During the last few moments, he had been thinking with some tenseness. Comrade Threepwood, he said reprovingly. You suggest a cowardly and weak-minded action. I admit that the outlook would be distinctly rosier if no such person as Baxter were on the premises. But, nevertheless, the thing must be seen through to a finish. At least we have this advantage over our spectacled friend that we know he suspects me and he doesn't know we know. I think that with a little resource and ingenuity we may yet win through. He turned to the window and looked out. Sad, he sighed, that these idyllic surroundings should have become oppressed with a cloud of sinister menace. One thinks one sees a fawn popping about in the undergrowth and on looking more closely perceives that it is, in reality, a detective with a notebook. What one fancied was the piping of pan turns out to be a police whistle, summoning assistance. Still, we must bear these things without wincing. They are our cross. What you have told me will render me, if possible, wearier and more snake-like than ever. But my purpose remains firm. The cry goes round the castle battlements. Smith intends to keep the old flag flying. So charge off and soothe your quivering ganglions with a couple of aspirins, comrade Three-Putt, and leave me to my thoughts. All will doubtless come right in the future. End of chapter eight. Chapter nine of Leave It to Smith. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Beth Thomas. Leave It to Smith by P.G. Woodhouse. Chapter nine, Smith engages the valet. From out of the scented shade of the big cedar on the lawn in front of the castle, Smith looked at the flower beds, jaunty and gleaming in the afternoon sun. Then he looked back at Eve in credulity in every feature. I must have misunderstood you, surely. He said in a voice vibrant with reproach, you do not seriously intend to work in weather like this. I must, I've got a conscience. They aren't paying me a handsome salary, a fairly handsome salary, to sit about in deck chairs. But you only came yesterday. Well, I ought to have worked yesterday. It seems to me, said Smith, the nearest thing to slavery that I have ever struck. I had hoped, seeing that everybody had gone off and left us alone, that we were going to spend a happy and instructive afternoon together under the shade of this noble tree, talking of this and that. Is it not to be? No, it is not. It's lucky you're not the one who's supposed to be cataloging this library. It would never get finished. And why, as your employer would say, should it? He has expressed the opinion several times in my hearing that the library has dogged along quite comfortably for a great number of years without being catalogued. Why shouldn't it go on like that indefinitely? It's no good trying to tempt me. There's nothing I should like better than to loaf here for hours and hours. But what would Mr. Baxter say when he got back and found out? It is becoming increasingly clear to me each day that I stay in this place, said Smith moodily, that Comrade Baxter is little short of a blister on the community. Tell me, how do you get on with him? I don't like him much. Nor do I. It is on these communities of taste that lifelong attachments are built. Sit down and let us exchange confidences on the subject of Baxter. Eve laughed. Ha, ha, I won't. You're simply trying to lure me into staying out here and neglecting my duty. I really must be off now. You have no idea what a lot of work there is to be done. You are entirely spoiling my afternoon. No, I'm not. You've got a book. What is it? Smith picked up the brightly-jacketed volume and glanced at it. The man with the missing toe. Comrade Thripwood lent it to me. He has a vast store of this type of narrative. I expect he'll be wanting you to catalogue his library next. Well, it looks interesting. Ah, but what does it teach? How long do you propose to shut yourself up in that evil-smelling library? An hour or so? Then I shall rely on your society at the end of that period. We might go for another saunter on the lake. All right, I'll come and find you when I'm finished. Smith watched her disappear into the house, then seated himself once more in a long chair under the cedar. A sense of loneliness oppressed him. He gave one look at the man with the missing toe, and, having rejected the entertainment it offered, gave himself up to meditation. Blanding's castle dozed in the midsummer heat like a palace of sleep. There had been an exodus of its inmates shortly after lunch, when Lord Emsworth, Lady Constance, Mr. Keeble, Miss Peavey and the efficient Baxter had left for the neighbouring town of Bridgeford in the big car with the honourable Freddie puffing in his wake in a natty-two cedar. Smith, who had been invited to accompany them, had declined on the plea that he wished to write a poem. He felt put a tepid interest in the afternoon's programme, which was to consist of the unveiling by his lordship of the recently completed memorial to the late, heartily reddish Esquire J.P., for so many years member of Parliament for the Bridgeford and Shifley Division of Shropshire. Not even the prospect of hearing Lord Emsworth, clad not without vain protest and weak grumbling in a silk hat, morning coat and sponge-bag trousers, deliver a speech had been sufficient to lure him from the castle grounds. But at the moment when he had uttered his refusal, thereby incurring the ill-concealed envy both of Lord Emsworth and his son Freddie, the latter also an unwilling celebrant, he had supposed that his solitude would be shared by Eve. This deplorable conscientiousness of hers, this morbid craving for work, had left him at a loose end. The time and the place were both above criticism, but as so often happens in this life of ours, he had been let down by the girl. But though he chafed for a while, it was not long before the dreamy piece of the afternoon began to exercise a soothing effect upon him, with the exception of the bees that worked with their usual misguided energy among the flowers and an occasional butterfly which flitted past in the sunshine, all nature seemed to be taking a siesta. Somewhere out of sight a lawnmower had begun to emphasise the stillness where this musical were. A telegraph boy on a red bicycle passed up the drive to the front door, and seemed to have some difficulty in establishing communication with the domestic staff, from which Smith deduced that bitch, the butler, like a good opportunist, was taking advantage of the absence of authority to enjoy a nap in some distant lair of his own. Eventually a parlour maid appeared, accepted the telegram and, apparently, a rebuke from the boy, and the bicycle passed out of sight, leaving silence and peace once more. The noblest minds are not proof against atmospheric conditions of this kind. Smith's eyes closed, opened, closed again, and presently his regular breathing, varied by an occasional snore, was added to the rest of the small sounds of the summer afternoon. The shadow of the cedar was appreciably longer when he awoke with a sudden start, which generally terminates sleep in a garden chair. A glance at his watch told him that it was close on five o'clock, a fact which was confirmed a moment later by the arrival of the parlour maid who had answered the summons of the telegraph boy. She appeared to be the sole survivor of the little world that had its centre in the servants' hall, a sort of female Casa Bianca. I have put your tea in the hall, sir. You could have performed no noblest or more charitable task, Smith assured her, and having corrected a certain stiffness of limb by means of massage went in. It occurred to him that Eve, a seduous worker though she was, might have knocked off in order to keep him company. The hope proved vain. A single cup stood bleakly on the tray. Either Eve was superior to the feminine passion for tea, or she was having hers up in the library. Filled with something of the sadness which she had felt at the sight of the toiling bees, Smith embarked on his solitary meal, wandering sorrowfully at the perverseness which made girls work when there was no one to watch them. It was very agreeable here in the coolness of the hall. The great door of the castle was open, and through it he had a view of lawns bathed in a thirst-provoking sunlight. Through the green-bathed door to his left, which led to the servants' quarters, an occasional sharp giggle gave evidence of the presence of humanity. But apart from that he might have been alone in the world. Once again he fell into a dreamy meditation, and there is little reason to doubt that he would shortly have disgraced himself by falling asleep for the second time in a single afternoon, when he was restored to alertness by the sudden appearance of a foreign body in the open doorway. Against the background of golden light a black figure had abruptly manifested itself. The sharp pang of apprehension which ran through Smith's consciousness like an electric shock, causing him to stiffen like some wild creature surprised in the woods, was due to the momentary belief that the newcomer was the local vicar, of whose conversational powers he had had experience on the second day of his visit. Another glance showed him that he had been too pessimistic. This was not the vicar. It was someone whom he had never seen before—a slim and graceful young man with a dark, intelligent face who stood blinking in the subdued light of the hall, with eyes not yet accustomed to the absence of strong sunshine. Suddenly relieved, Smith rose and approached him. "'Hello,' said the newcomer. "'I didn't see you. It's quite dark in here after outside.' "'The light is pleasantly dim,' agreed Smith. "'Is Lord Emsworth anywhere about?' "'I fear not. He has legged it, accompanied by the entire household, to superintend the unveiling of a memorial at Bridgeford, too, if my memory serves me rightly, the late, heartly reddish Esquire J.P. M.P. "'Is there anything I can do?' "'Well, I've come to stay, you know.' "'Indeed.' "'Lady Constance invited me to pay a visit as soon as I reached England.' "'Ah, then you have come from foreign parts.' "'Canada.'" Smith started slightly. This, he perceived, was going to complicate matters. The last thing he desired was the addition to the blinding circle of one familiar with Canada. Nothing would militate against his peace of mind more than the society of a man who would want to exchange with him views on that growing country. "'Oh, Canada,' he said. "'I wired,' receded the other, but I suppose it came after everybody had left. "'Ah, that must be my telegram on that table over there.' I walked up from the station. He was rambling idly about the hall after the fashion of someone breaking new ground. He paused at an occasional table, the one where, when taking after dinner coffee, Miss Peavey was want to sit. He picked up a book and uttered a gratified laugh. "'Oh, one of my little things,' he said. "'One of what?' said Smith. "'This book, Songs of Squalor. I wrote it.' "'You wrote it?' "'Yes, my name's McTodd, Ralston McTodd. I expect you have heard them speak of me.' Part II. The mind of a man who has undertaken a mission as delicate as Smith's at Blanding's castle is necessarily alert. Ever since he had stepped into the five o'clock train at Paddington, when his adventure might have said formally to have started, Smith had walked warily, like one in a jungle on whom sudden and unexpected things might pounce out at any moment. This calm announcement from the slim young man, therefore, though it undoubtedly startled him, did not deprive him of his faculties. On the contrary, it quickened them. His first action was to step nimbly to the table on which the telegram lay awaiting the return of Lord Emsworth. His second was to slip the envelope into his pocket. It was imperative that telegram signed McTodd should not lie about loose while he was enjoying the hospitality of the castle. This done, he confronted the young man. "'Come, come,' he said with quiet severity. He was extremely grateful to a kindly providence, which had arranged that this interview should take place at a time when nobody but himself was in the house. "'You say that you are Ralston McTodd, the author of these poems?' "'Yes, I do.' "'Then what?' said Smith incisively, is a pale parabola of joy. "'Uh, what?' said the newcomer, in an enfeebled voice. There was manifest in his demeanour now a marked nervousness. "'And here is another,' said Smith. "'The—wait a minute, I'll get it soon, yes—the sibilant, scented silence that shimmered where we sat. Could you oblige me with a diagram of that one?' "'I—I—what are you talking about?' Smith stretched out a long arm and batted him almost affectionately on the shoulder. "'It's lucky you met me before you had to face the others,' he said. "'I fear that you undertook this little venture without thoroughly equipping yourself. They would have detected your imposture in the first minute.' "'What do you mean imposture? I don't know what you're talking about.'" Smith waggled his forefinger at him reproachfully. "'My dear comrade, I may as well tell you at once that the genuine McTodd is an old and dear friend of mine. I had a long and entertaining conversation with him only a few days ago. So that, I think we may confidently assert, is that, or am I wrong?' "'Oh, hell!' said the young man, and flopping bonelessly into a chair, he mopped his forehead in undisguised and abject collapse. Silence reigned for a while. "'What?' inquired the visitor, raising a damp face that shone pallidly in the dim light. "'Are you going to do about it?' "'Nothing, comrade. By the way, what is your name?' "'Kutz.'" "'Nothing, comrade Kutz, nothing, whatever. You are free to leg it hence whenever you feel disposed. In fact, the sooner you do so, the better I shall be pleased. "'Say, that's done, good of you. Not at all, not at all. "'You're an ace?' "'Oh, hush!' interrupted Smith modestly. "'But before you go, tell me one or two things. I take it that your object in coming here was to have a pop at Lady Constance's necklace.' "'Yes.'" I thought as much. And what made you suppose that the real MacTodd would not be here when you arrived? "'Oh, that was all right. I travelled over with that guy MacTodd on the boat, and saw a good deal of him when we got to London. He was full of how he'd been invited here, and I got it out of him that no one knew him by sight. And then one afternoon I met him in the strand, all worked up, madder than a hornet, said he'd been insulted and wouldn't come down to this place if they came and begged him on their bended knees. I couldn't make out what it was all about. But apparently he hadn't met Lord Emsworth and hadn't been treated right. He told me he was going straight off to Paris. And did he? Sure. I saw him off myself at Sharon Cross. That's why it seemed such a cinch coming here instead of him. It's just my darned luck that the first man I run into is a friend of his. How was I to know that he had any friends this side? He told me he'd never been in England before." "'In this life, Comrade Coots,' said Smith, "'we must always distinguish between the unlikely and the impossible. It was unlikely, as you say, that you would meet any friend of McTodd's in this out-of-the-way spot, and you rashly ordered your movements on the assumption that it was impossible. With what result? The cry goes round the underworld. Poor old Coots has made a bloomer. You needn't rub it in. I'm only doing so for your own good. It is my honest hope that you will lay this lesson to heart and profit by it. Who knows that it may not be a turning point in your career? Years hence, when you are a white-haired and opulent man of leisure, having retired from the crook business with a comfortable fortune, you may look back on your experience of today and realise that it was the means of starting you on the road to success. You will lay stress on it when you are interviewed for the weekly burglar on how I began. But, talking of starting on roads, I think it would be as well if you now had a dash at the one leading to the railway station. The household may be returning at any moment now." "'That's right,' agreed the visitor. "'I think so,' said Smith. "'I think so. You will be happier when you are away from here. Once outside the castle precincts, a great weight will roll off your mind. A little fresh air will put roses in your cheeks. You know your way out?' He shepherded the young man to the door, and with a cordial push, started him on his way. Then, with long strides, he ran upstairs to the library to find Eve. At about the same moment, on the platform of Market Blanding Station, Miss Arlene Peavey was alighting from the train which had left Bridgeford some half an hour earlier. A headache, the fruit of standing about in the hot sun, had caused her to forgo the pleasure of hearing Lord Emsworth deliver his speech, and she had slipped back on a convenient train with the intention of lying down and resting. Finding on reaching Market Blanding's that her head was much better, and the heat of the afternoon being now over, she started to walk to the castle, greatly refreshed by a cool breeze which had sprung up from the west. She left the town at almost exactly the same time when the disconsulate Mr. Coots was passing out of the big gates at the end of the castle drive. Part three. The gray melancholy which accompanied Mr. Coots like a diligent spectre as he began his walk back to the town of Market Blanding's, and which not even the delightful evening could dispel, was due primarily, of course, to that sickening sense of defeat which afflicts a man whose high hopes have been wrecked in the very instant when success has seemed in sight. Once or twice in the life of every man, there falls to his lot something which can only be described as a soft snap, and it had seemed to Mr. Coots that this venture of his to Blanding's castle came into that category. He had, like most members of his profession, had his ups and downs in the past, but at last he told himself the goddess Fortune had handed him something on a plate with watercress around it. Once established in the castle, there would have been a hundred opportunities of achieving the capture of Lady Constance's necklace, and it had looked as though all he had to do was to walk in, announce himself, and be treated as the honoured guest. As he slouched moodily between the dusty hedges that fringe the road to Market Blanding's, Edward Coots tasted the bitterness that only those know whose plans have been upset by the hundred the chance. But this was not all. In addition to the sadness of frustrated hope, he was also experiencing the anguish of troubled memories. Not only was the present torturing him, but the past had come to life and jumped out and bitten him. A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things, and this was what Edward Coots was doing now. It is at moments like this that a man needs a woman's tender care, and Mr. Coots had lost the only woman in whom he could have confided his grief, the only woman who would have understood and sympathised. We have been introduced to Mr. Coots at a point in his career when he was practising upon dry land, but that was not his chosen environment. Until a few months back his business had lain upon deep waters. The salt-centred the sea was in his blood. To put it more exactly, he had been by profession a card-sharper on the Atlantic liners, and it was during this period he had loved and lost. For three years and more he had worked in perfect harmony with the lady who, though she adopted a variety of names for purposes of travel, was known to her immediate circle as Smooth Lizzie. He had been the practitioner, she the decoy, and theirs had been one of those ideal business partnerships which one so seldom meets with in a world of cynicism and mistrust. Comradeship had ripened into something deeper and more sacred, and it was all settled between them that when they next touched New York, Mr. Coots, if still at liberty, should proceed to the city hall for a marriage licence. When they had quarrelled, quarrelled irrevocably over one of those trifling points over which lovers do quarrel. Some absurd dispute as the proper division of the quite meagre sum obtained from a cattle millionaire on their last voyage had marred their golden dreams. One word had led to another. The lady, after woman's habit, had the last of the series, and even Mr. Coots was forced to admit that it was a pippin. She had spoken it on the pier at New York and then passed out of his life, and with her had gone all his luck. It was as if her going had brought a curse upon him. On the very next trip he had had the unfortunate misunderstanding with an irritable gentleman from the Middle West, who, peaked at what he considered, not unreasonably, the undue proportion of kings and aces in the hands which Mr. Coots had been dealing himself, expressed his displeasure by biting off the first joint of the other's right index finger, thus putting an abrupt end to a brilliant career. For it was on this finger that Mr. Coots principally relied for the almost magical effects which he was wanted to produce with the back of guards after a little quiet shuffling. With an aching sense of what might have been, he thought now of his lost Lizzie. Regretfully he admitted to himself that she had always been the brains of the firm. A certain manual dexterity he had no doubt possessed, but it was ever Lizzie who had been responsible for the finer work. If they had still been partners, he really believed that she could have discovered some way of getting round the obstacles which had reared themselves now between himself and the necklace of Lady Constance Keeble. It was in a humble and contrite spirit that Edward Coots proceeded on his way to market blandings. Miss Peavey, meanwhile, who it will be remembered, was moving slowly along the road from the market blandings end, was finding her walk both restful and enjoyable. There were moments it has to be recorded when the society of her hostess and her hostess's relations was something of a strain to Miss Peavey, and she was glad to be alone. Her headache had disappeared and she reveled in the quiet evening hush. About now, if she had not had the sense to detach herself from the castle platoon, she would, she reflected, be listening to Lord M'sworth's speech on the subject of the late Hartley Reddish, J.P. M.P., a topic which even the noblest of orators might have failed to render really gripping. And what she knew of her host gave her little confidence in his powers of oratory. Yes, she was well out of it. The gentle breeze played soothingly upon her face. Her delicately modelled nostrils drank in gratefully the scent from the hedgerows. Somewhere out of sight, a thrush was singing, and so moved was Miss Peavey by the peace and sweetness of it all that she too began to sing. Had those who enjoyed the privilege of her acquaintance at Blanding's castle been informed that Miss Peavey was about to sing, they would doubtless have considered themselves on firm ground if called upon to make a conjecture as to the type of song which she would select, something quaint, dreamy, a little wistful. That would have been the universal guess, some old-world ballad possibly. What Miss Peavey actually sang in a soft, meditative voice like that of a linnet waking to greet the new dawn was the curious composition known as the Beale Street Blues. As she reached the last line, she broke off abruptly. As she was, she perceived, no longer alone. Down the road toward her, walking pensively like one with a secret sorrow, a man was approaching. And for an instant, as she turned the corner, something in his appearance seemed to catch her by the throat, and her breath came sharply. Gee, said Miss Peavey. She was herself again the next moment. A chance resemblance had misled her. She could not see the man's face for his head was bent, but how was it possible? And then, when he was quite close, he raised his head, and the county of Shropshire, as far as it was visible to her amazed eyes, executed a sudden and eccentric dance. Trees bobbed up and down, heads rose shimmied like a Broadway chorus, and from out of the midst of the whirling countryside, a voice spoke, "'Liz, Eddie!' ejaculated Miss Peavey faintly and sat down in a heap on the grassy bank. "'Part Four.' "'Well, for goodness' sake,' said Miss Peavey. Shropshire had become static once more. She stared at him wide-eyed. "'Can you tie it?' said Miss Peavey. She ran her gaze over him once again from head to foot. "'Well, if this ain't the cat's whiskers,' said Miss Peavey. And with this final pronouncement, she rose from her bank, somewhat restored, and addressed herself to the task of picking up old threads. "'Wherever,' she inquired, "'did you spring from, Ed?' There was nothing but affection in her voice. Her gaze was out of her mother, contemplating her long-lost child. The past was past, and a new era had begun. In the past she had been compelled to describe this man as a hunk of cheese, and to express the opinion that his crookedness was such as to enable him to hide at will behind a spiral staircase. But now, in the joy of this unexpected reunion, all these harsh views were forgotten. This was Eddie Coots, her old sidekick, come back to her after many days, and only now was it born in upon her what a gap in her life his going had made. She flung herself into his arms with a collared cry. Mr. Coots, who had not been expecting this demonstration of esteem, staggered a trifle at the impact, but recovered himself sufficiently to return the embrace with something of his ancient warmth. He was delighted at this cordiality, but also surprised. The memory of the lady's parting words on the occasion of their last meeting was still green, and he had not realised how quickly women forget and forgive, and how a sensitive girl, stirred by some fancied injury, may address a man as a pie-faced plug-ugly, and yet retain in her inmost heart all of the old love and affection. He kissed Miss Peavey fondly. "'Liz!' he said with fervour. "'You're prettier than ever.' "'Now you behave,' responded Miss Peavey coyly. The arrival of a barring flock of sheep, escorted by a priggish dog and followed by a couple of the local peasantry, caused an intermission of these tender exchanges, and by the time the procession had moved off down the road they were in a more suitable frame of mind to converse quietly and in a practical spirit to compare notes and to fill up the blanks. "'Wherever,' inquired Miss Peavey again. "'Did you spring from it? You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw you coming along the road. I couldn't have believed it was you this far from the ocean. What are you doing in land like this? Taking a vacation? Or aren't you working the boats any more?' "'No, Liz,' said Mr. Coots sadly. I've had to give that up.' And he exhibited the hiatus where an important section of his finger had been and told his painful tale. His companion's sympathy was barmed to his wounded soul. The risks of the profession, of course, said Mr. Coots mootily, removing the exhibit in order to place his arm about her slender waist. Still, it's done me in. I tried once or twice, but I couldn't seem to make the card's behave no more, so I quit. "'Ah, Liz,' said Mr. Coots with feeling, you can take it from me that I've had no luck since you left me. Regular hoodoo there's been on me. If I'd walked under a ladder on a Friday to smash a mirror over the dome of a black cat, I couldn't have had it tougher. "'You poor boy,' Mr. Coots nodded somberly. Tough,' he agreed. But there it is. Only this afternoon, my jinx gummed the game for me and threw a spanner into the prettiest little scenario you ever thought of. But let's not talk about my troubles. What are you doing now, Liz?' "'Me? Oh, I'm living near here.' Mr. Coots started. "'Not married,' he exclaimed in alarm. "'No!' cried Miss Peavey with vehemence and shot a tender glance up at his face. And I guess you know why, Ed. You don't mean you hadn't forgotten me?' "'As if I could ever forget you, Eddie! There's only one tin-type on my mantelpiece.' But it struck me. It sort of occurred to me as a passing thought that, when we saw each other last, you were a might-peaved with your Eddie.' It was the first illusion either of them had made to the past unpleasantness, and it caused a faint plush to die Miss Peavey's soft cheek. "'Oh, shucks!' she said. I'd forgotten all about that next day. I was good and mad at the time. I'll allow. But if only you'd called me up next morning, Ed.' There was a silence as they mused on what might have been. "'What are you doing living here?' said Mr. Coots after a pregnant pause. Have you retired?' "'No, sir. I'm sitting in at a game with real worthwhile stakes. But darn it!' said Miss Peavey regretfully. I'm wondering if it isn't too big for me to put through alone. Oh, Eddie, if there was only some way you and me could work it together like in the old days.' "'What is it?' "'Diamonds, Eddie, and necklace. I've only had one look at it so far, but that was enough. Some of the best eyes I've saw in years, Ed, worth every cent of a hundred thousand berries.' The coincidence drew from Mr. Coots a sharp exclamation. "'And necklace?' "'Listen, Ed, while I slip you the lowdown, and say, if you knew the relief it was to me talking good United States again, like taking off a pair of tight shoes. I'm doing the high-tone stuff for the moment, soulful. You remember, like I used to pull once or twice in the old days? Just after you and me had that little spat of ours. I thought I'd take another trip in the old Atlantic, force of habit or something, I guess. Anyway, I sailed, and reworded two days out from New York when I made the biggest kind of a hit with a dame this necklace belongs to, since take a shine to me right away.' "'I don't blame her,' murmured Mr. Coots devotedly. "'Now don't you interrupt?' said Miss Peavey, administering a gratified slap. "'Where was I?' "'Oh yes, this here now Lady Constance Keeble I'm telling you about.' "'What?' "'What's the matter now?' "'Lady Constance Keeble.' "'That's the name. She's Lord Emsworth's sister, who lives at a big place up the road, Blanding's castle, it's called. She didn't seem like she was able to let me out of her sight, and I've been with her on and off ever since we landed. I'm visiting at the castle now.' "'A deep sigh, like the groan of some great spirit in travail, forced itself from between Mr. Coots's lips.' "'Well, wouldn't that jar you?' he demanded of circumambiant space. Of all the lucky ones, getting into the place like that, with the band playing in a red carpet laid down for you to walk on. Gee, if you fell down a well, Liz, you'd come up with the bucket. You're a human horseshoe, that's what you are. Say, listen, let me tell you something. Do you know what I've been doing this afternoon? Only, trying to edge into the damn place myself, and getting the air two minutes after I was past the front door. "'What? You add?' "'Sure. You're not the only one that's heard of that collection of ice.' "'Oh, add!' Bitter disappointment rang in Miss Peavey's voice. If only you could have worked it, me and you partners again! It hurts to think of it. What was the stuff you pulled to get you in?' Mr. Coots so far forgot himself in his agony of spirit as to expectorate disgustedly at a passing frog. And even in this trivial enterprise failure dogged him. He missed the frog, which withdrew into the grass with a cold look of disapproval. "'Me?' said Mr. Coots. I thought I'd got it smooth. I'd chummed up with a fellow who'd been invited down to the place, and had thought it over, and decided not to go. So I said to myself, what's the matter with going there instead of him? A gink called McTodd this was, a poet, and none of the folks had ever said eyes on him except the old man, who's too short-sighted to see anyone. So... Miss Peavey interrupted. You don't mean to tell me, Ed Coots, that you thought you could get into the castle by pretending to be Ralston McTodd. Sure I did. Why not? It didn't seem like there was anything to it. A cinch, that's what it looked like. And the first guy I meet in the joint is a mutt, who knows this McTodd well. We had a couple of words and I beat it. I know when I'm not wanted. But Ed, Ed, what do you mean? Ralston McTodd is at the castle now, this very moment. How's that? Sure, been there a couple of days and more. Long, thin bird with an eyeglass. Mr. Coots' mind was in a whirl. He could make nothing of this matter. Nothing like it. McTodd's not so darn tall or so thin if it comes to that. And he didn't wear no eyeglasses all the time I was with him. This... He broke off sharply. My gosh! I wonder... He cried. Liz, how many men are there in the joint right now? Only four beside Lord Zemsworth. There's a big party coming down for the county ball, but that's all there is at present. There's Lord Zemsworth's son Freddy. What does he look like? Sort of a dude with blonde hair slicked back. Then there's Mr. Keeble. He's short with a red face. And... And Baxter. His Lord Zemsworth secretary wears spectacles. And that's the lot. That's all there is not counting this here, McTodd, and the help. Mr. Coots brought down his hand with a resounding report on his leg. The mildly pleasant look which had been a feature of his appearance during the interview with Smith had vanished now. It's placed taken by one of an extremely sinister malevolence. And I let him shoo me out as if I were a stray pup. He muttered through clenched teeth. Of all the bunk games. What are you talking about, Ed? And I thanked him. Thanked him, moaned Edward Coots writhing at the memory. I thanked him for letting me go. Eddie Coots, whatever are you? Listen, Liz. Mr. Coots mastered his emotion with a strong effort. I blew into that joint and met this fellow with the eyeglass, and he told me he knew McTodd well and that I wasn't him. And from what you tell me, this must be the very guy that's passing himself off as McTodd. Don't you see? This baby must have started working on the same lines I did. Got to know McTodd, found he wasn't coming to the castle, and came down instead of him, same as me. Only he got there first, damn him. Wouldn't that give you a pain in the neck? Amazement held Miss Peavey dumb for an instant. Then she spoke. The big stiff, said Miss Peavey. Mr. Coots, regardless of a lady's presence, went even further in his censure. I had a feeling from the first that there was something not on the level about that guy, said Miss Peavey. Gee, he must be after the necklace, too. Sure he's after the necklace, said Mr. Coots impatiently. What do you think he come down for, a change of air? But Ed, say, are you going to let him get away with it? Am I going to let him get away with it, said Mr. Coots annoyed by the foolish question. Wake me up in the night and ask me. But what are you going to do? Do, said Mr. Coots, do. I'll tell you what I'm going to do. He paused, and the stern resolve that Sean and his face seemed to flicker. Say, what the hell am I going to do? He went on somewhat weakly. You won't get anything by putting folks wise that he's a fake. That would be the finish of him, but it wouldn't get you anywhere. No, said Mr. Coots. Wait a minute while I think, said Miss Peavey. There was a pause. Miss Peavey sat with knit brows. How would it be? Benchard Mr. Coots. Cheese it! said Miss Peavey. Mr. Coots cheesed it. The minutes ticked on. I've got it, said Miss Peavey. This guy is ace high with Lady Constance. You've got to get him alone right away, and tell him he's got to get you invited to the place as a friend of his. I knew you'd think of something, Liz. Said Mr. Coots almost humbly. You always were a wonder like that. How am I to get him alone? Oh, I can fix that. I'll ask him to come for a stroll with me. He's not what you'd call crazy about me, but he can't very well duck if I keep after him. We'll go down the drive. You'll be in the bushes. I'll show you the place. Then I'll send him to fetch me a wrap or something, and while I walk on, he'll come back past where you're hiding, and you just jump out at him. Liz, said Mr. Coots lost in admiration. When it comes to doping out a scheme, you're the snake's eyebrows. But what are you going to do if he just turns you down? Mr. Coots uttered a bleak laugh, and from the recesses of his costume produced a neat little revolver. He won't turn me down, he said. Part 5 Fancy, said Miss Peavey. If I had not had a headache and come back early, we should never have had this little chat. She gazed up at Smith in her gentle, wistful way as they started together down the broad gravel drive. A timid, soulful little thing she looked. No, said Smith. It was not a gushing reply, but he was not feeling at his sunniest. The idea that Miss Peavey might return from Bridgeford in advance of the main body had not occurred to him. As he would have said himself, he had confused the unlikely with the impossible, and the result had been that she had caught him beyond hope of retreat as he sat in his garden chair and thought of Eve Halliday, who on their return from the lake had been seized with a fresh spasm of conscience and had gone back to the library to put in another hour's work before dinner. To decline Miss Peavey's invitation to accompany her down the drive in order to see if there were any signs of those who had been doing honour to the late Hartley Regish MP had been out of the question. But Smith, though he went, went without pleasure. Every moment he spent in her society tended to confirm him more and more in the opinion that Miss Peavey was the curse of the species. And I have been so longing, continued his companion, to have a nice long talk. All these days I have felt that I haven't been able to get as near to you as I should wish. Well, of course, with the others always about. I mean in a spiritual sense, of course. I see. I wanted so much to discuss your wonderful poetry with you. You haven't so much as mentioned your work since you came here, have you? Ah, but you see, I'm trying to keep my mind off it. Really? Why? My medical advisor warned me that I had been concentrating a trifle too much. He offered me the choice, in fact, between a complete rest and the loony bin. The what, Mr. MacDodd? The lunatic asylum, he meant. These medical men express themselves oddly. But surely then you ought not to dream of trying to compose if it is as bad as that. And you told Lord Emsworth that you wish to stay at home this afternoon to write a poem. Her glance showed nothing but tender solicitude. But inwardly Miss Peavey was telling herself that that would hold him for a while. True, said Smith, true. But you know what art is. An inexorable mistress. The inspiration came, and I felt that I must take the risk. But it has left me weak, weak. You be stiff, said Miss Peavey, but not out loud. They walked on a few steps. In fact, said Smith with another inspiration, I'm not sure I ought not to be going back and resting now. Miss Peavey, I had a clump of bushes some dozen yards further down the drive. They were quivering slightly, as though they sheltered some alien body. And Miss Peavey, whose temper was apt to be impatient, registered a resolve to tell Edward Coots that if he couldn't hide behind a bush without dancing about like a cat on hot bricks, he had better give up his profession and take to selling jelly deals. In which, it may be mentioned, she wronged her old friend. He had been as still as a statue until a moment before, when a large and excitable beetle had fallen down the space between his collar and his neck, an experience which might well have tried the subtlest woodsman. Oh, please don't go in yet, said Miss Peavey. It is such a lovely evening. Hark to the music of the breeze and the treetops, so soothing, like a faraway harp. I wonder if it is whispering secrets to the birds. Smith forbore to follow her into this region of speculation, and they walked past the bushes in silence. Some little distance further on, however, Miss Peavey seemed to relent. You are looking tired, Mr. McTodd. She said anxiously. I am afraid you really had been overtaxing your strength. Perhaps after all you had better go back and lie down. You think so? I am sure of it. I will just stroll onto the gates and see if the car is in sight. I feel that I am deserting you. Oh, please, said Miss Peavey deprecatingly. With something of the feelings of a long sentence convict unexpectedly released immediately on his arrival in jail, Smith retraced his steps. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Miss Peavey had disappeared round a bend in the drive, and he paused to light a cigarette. He had just thrown away the match, and was walking on well content with life, when a voice behind him said, Hey! and the well-remembered former Mr. Edward Coots stepped out of the bushes. See this, said Mr. Coots exhibiting his revolver. I do indeed, Comrade Coots, replied Smith. And if it is not an untimely question, what is the idea? That, said Mr. Coots, is just in case you try any funny business. And replacing the weapon in a handy pocket, he proceeded to slap vigorously at the region between his shoulder blades. He also wriggled with not a little animation. Smith watched these maneuvers gravely. You did not stop me at the pistol's point, merely to watch you go through your Swedish exercises. He said, Mr. Coots paused for an instant. Got a beetle or something down my back, he explained curtly. Ah, then, as you will naturally wish to be alone in such a sad moment, I'll be bidding you a cordial good evening and strolling on. No, you don't. Don't I? said Smith resignedly. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps you are right. Mr. Coots replaced the revolver once more. I take it then, Comrade Coots, that you would have a speech with me. Carry on, old friend, and get it off your diaphragm. What seems to be on your mind? A lucky blow appeared to have stunned Mr. Coots' beetle, and he was able to give his full attention to the matter in hand. He stared at Smith with considerable distaste. I'm on to you, Bill, he said. My name is not Bill, said Smith. No, said Mr. Coots. His annoyance by this time very manifest, and it's not Mac Todd. Smith looked at his companion thoughtfully. This was an unforeseen complication, and for the moment he would readily have admitted that he saw no way of overcoming it. That the other was in no genial frame of mind towards him, the expression on his face would have showed, even if his actions had not been sufficient indication of the fact. Mr. Coots, having disposed of his beetle, and being now at leisure to concentrate his whole attention on Smith, was eyeing that immaculate young man with a dislike, which he did not attempt to conceal. Shall we be strolling on? suggested Smith. Walking may assist thought. At the moment I am free to confess that you have opened up a subject which causes me some perplexity. I think, Comrade Coots, having given the position of affairs a careful examination, that we may say the next move is with you. What do you propose to do about it? I'd like, said Mr. Coots with a spirity, to beat your block off. And no doubt, but, uh, I'd like to knock you for a goal. Smith discouraged these utopian dreams with a deprecating wave of a hand. I can readily understand it, he said courteously. But to keep within the sphere of practical politics, what is the actual move which you contemplate? You could expose me, no doubt, to my host, but I cannot see how that would profit you. I know that, but you can remember I've got that up my sleeve in case you try any funny business. You persist in harping on that possibility, Comrade Coots. The idea seems to be an obsession with you. I can assure you that I contemplate no such thing. What, to return to the point, do you intend to do? They had reached the broad expanse opposite the front door, where the drive, from being a river, spread out into a lake of gravel. Smith stopped. You've got to get me into this joint, said Mr. Coots. I feared that that was what you were about to suggest. In my peculiar position I have naturally no choice but to endeavour to carry out your wishes. Any attempt not to do so would, I imagine, infallibly strike so keen a critic as yourself as funny business. But how can I get you into what you breezily describe as this joint? You can say I'm a friend of yours and ask them to invite me. Smith shook his head gently. Not one of your brightest suggestions, Comrade Coots. Tackfully refraining from stressing the point that an instant lowering of my prestige would inevitably ensue should be supposed that you were a friend of mine. I will merely mention that, being myself merely a guest in this stately home of England, I can hardly go about inviting my chums here for indefinite visits. No, we must find another way. You're sure you want to stay? Quite so, quite so, I merely asked. Now let us think. Through the belt of rhododendrons which jutted out from one side of the castle, a portly form at this point made itself visible, moving high and disposedly in the direction of the back premises. It was Beach, the butler, returning from the pleasant ramble in which he had indulged himself on the departure of his employer and the rest of the party. Revived by some gracious hours in the open air, Beach was returning to duty. And with the sight of him there came to Smith and need solution to the problem confronting him. Oh, Beach! he called. Sir! responded a fruity voice. There was a brief pause while the butler navigated into the open. He removed the straw hat, which he had donned for his excursion, and unfolded Smith in a pop-eyed but not unkindly gaze. A thoughtful critic of country house humanity, he had long since decided that he approved of Smith. Since Lady Constance had first begun to offer the hospitality of the castle to the literary and artistic world, he had been profoundly shocked by some of the rare and curious specimens who had knotted their disordered locks and flaunted their ill-cut evening clothes at the dinner table over which he presided, and Smith had come as a pleasant surprise. Sorry to trouble you, Beach. Not at all, sir. This, said Smith, indicating Mr. Coots, who was viewing the scene with a wary and suspicious eye, and I obviously alert for any signs of funny business. Is my man, my valet, you know? He has just arrived from town. I had to leave him behind to attend to the bedside of his sick aunt. Your aunt was better when you came away, Coots? He inquired graciously. Mr. Coots correctly interpreted this question as a feeler with regard to his views on this new development, and he decided to accept the situation. True, he had hoped to enter the castle in a slightly higher capacity than that of a gentleman's personal gentleman, but he was an old campaigner. Once in, as he put it to himself with admirable common sense, he would be in. Yes, sir, he replied. Capital, said Smith, capital. Then will you look after Coots, Beach? A very good sir, said the butler, in a voice of cordial approval. The only point he had found to Cabellat in Smith had been removed, for it had hitherto pained him a little that a gentleman with so nice a taste in clothes as that dignified guest should have embarked on a visit to such a place as Blanding's Castle without a personal attendant. Now all was explained, and as far as Beach was concerned, forgiven. He proceeded to escort Mr. Coots to the rear. They disappeared behind the Rotor Dendrons. They had hardly gone when a sudden thought came to Smith, as he sat once more in the coolness of the hall. He pressed the bell. Strange, he reflected, how one overlooked these obvious things. That was how generals lost battles. Sir, said Beach, appearing through the Green Bay's door. Sorry to trouble you again, Beach. Not at all, sir. I hope you'll make Coots comfortable. I think you'll like him. His, when you get to know him, is a very winning personality. He seems a nice young fellow, sir. Oh, by the way, Beach, you might ask him if he brought my revolver from town with him. Oh, yes, sir, said Beach, who would have scorned to betray a motion if it had been a Lewis gun. I think I saw it sticking out of his pocket. You might bring it to me, will you? A very good, sir. Beach retired to return a moment later. On the silver salver which he carried, the lethal weapon was duly reposing. Your revolver, sir, said Beach. Thank you, said Smith. Part 6 For some moments, after the butler had withdrawn in his stately pigeon-toed way through the Green Bay's door, Smith lay back in his chair, with the feeling that something attempted, something done, had earned a knight's repose. He was not so sanguine as to suppose that he had actually checkmated an adversary of Mr. Coots's strenuousness by the simple act of removing a revolver from his possession. But there was no denying the fact that the feel of the thing in his pocket engendered a certain cosy satisfaction. The little he had seen of Mr. Coots had been enough to convince him that the other was a man who was far better off without an automatic pistol. There was an impulsiveness about his character which did not go well with the possession of firearms. Smith's meditations had taken him thus far when they were interrupted by an imperative voice. Hey! Only one person of Smith's acquaintance was in the habit of opening his remarks in this manner. It was consequently no surprise to him to find Mr. Edward Coots standing at his elbow. Hey! All right, Comrade Coots, said Smith with a touch of austerity. I heard you the first time, and may I remind you that this habit of yours of popping out from unexpected places and saying, hey, is one which should be overcome. Valets are supposed to wait until wrong for, at least, I think so. I must confess that until this moment I have never had a valet. And you wouldn't have one now if I could help it. Responded Mr. Coots. Smith raised his eyebrows. Why? he inquired, surprised. This peevishness. Don't you like being a valet? No, I don't. You astonish me. I should have thought you would have gone singing about the house. Have you considered that the tenancy of such a position throws you into the constant society of Comrade Beach, than whom it would be difficult to imagine a more delightful companion? Old stiff, said Mr. Coots sally. If there's one thing that makes me tired, it's a guy that talks about his darn stomach all the time. I beg your pardon. The beach-cook, explained Mr. Coots, has got something wrong with the lining of his stomach, and if I hadn't made my getaway, he'd be talking about it yet. If you fail to find entertainment and uplift, in first-hand information about Comrade Beach's stomach, you must indeed be hard to please. I am to take it, then, that you came snorting out here, interrupting my daydreams, merely in order to seek my sympathy. Mr. Coots gazed upon him with a smoldering eye. I came to tell you I suppose you think you're darn smart. And very nice of you, too, said Smith-touched. A pretty compliment for which I am not ungrateful. You got that gun away from me mighty smoothly, didn't you? Since you mention it, yes. And now I suppose you think you're going to slip in ahead of me and get away with that necklace? Well, say, listen, let me tell you, it'll take someone better than a half-baked string-bean like you to put one over on me. I seem, said Smith-pained, to detect a certain animus creeping into your tone. Surely we can be trade rivals without this spirit of hostility. My attitude towards you is one of kindly tolerance. Even if you get it, where do you think you're going to hide it? And believe me, it'll take some hiding. Say, let me tell you something, I'm your valet, ain't I? Well then, I can come into your room and be tidying up whenever I darn please, can't I? Sure I can, I'll tell the world I can do just that little thing, and you take it from me, Bill. You persist in the delusion that my name is William. You take it from me, Bill, that if ever the necklace disappears and isn't me that's done the disappearing, you'll find me tidying up in a way that'll make you dizzy. I'll go through that room of yours with a fine tooth comb, so chew on that, will you? And Edward Coots, moving sombly across the hall, made a sinister exit. The mood of cool reflection was still to come. When he would realise that, in his desire to administer what he would have described as a hot one, he had acted a little rashly in putting his enemy on his guard. All he was thinking now was that his brief sketch of the position of affairs would have the effect of diminishing Smith's complacency a trifle. He had, he flattered himself, slipped over something that could be classed as a jolt. Nor was he unjustified in this view. The aspect of the matter on which he had touched was one that had not previously presented itself to Smith, and amusing on it as he resettled himself in his chair, he could see that it afforded food for thought. As regarded the disposal of the necklace, should it ever come into his possession, he had formed no definite plan. He had assumed that he would conceal it somewhere until the first excitement of the chase slackened, and it was only now that he realised the difficulty of finding a suitable hiding-place outside his bedroom. Yes, it was certainly a matter on which, as Mr. Coots had suggested, he would do well to chew. For ten minutes accordingly, he did so. And it being practically impossible to keep a good man down, at the end of that period he was rewarded with an idea. He rose from his chair and pressed the bell. Ah, beach! he said affably, as the green bay's door swung open. I must apologise once more for troubling you. I keep ringing, don't I? No trouble at all, sir, responded the butler paternally. But if you are ringing to summon your personal attendant, I fear he is not immediately available. He left me somewhat abruptly a few moments ago. I was not aware that you would be requiring his services until the dressing-gong sounded, or I would have detained him. Never mind, it was you I wished to see, beach. Said Smith, I am concerned about you. I learn from my man that the lining of your stomach is not all it should be. That is true, sir, replied Beach, an excited gleam coming into his dull eyes. He shivered slightly, as might a war-horse at the sound of a bugle. I do have trouble with the lining of my stomach. Every stomach has a silver lining. Sir, I said, tell me all about it. Well really, sir, said Beach wistfully. To please me, urged Smith. Well, sir, it is extremely kind of you to take an interest. It generally starts with a dull shooting pain on the right side of the abdomen, from twenty minutes to half an hour after the conclusion of a meal. The symptoms? There was nothing but courteous sympathy in Smith's gaze, as he listened to what sounded like an eyewitness's account of the San Francisco earthquake. But inwardly, he was wishing that his companion could see his way to making it a bit briefer and snappier. However, all things come to an end, even the weirdest river winds somewhere to the sea. With a moving period, the butler finally concluded his narrative. Park's pepsineen, said Smith promptly. Sir? That's what you want? Park's pepsineen. It would set you right in no time. I will make a note of the name, sir. The specific has not come to my notice until now. And, if I may say so, with a glassy but adoring look at his benefactor, I should like to express my gratitude for your kindness. Not at all, Beach, not at all. Oh, Beach, he said, as the other started to maneuver towards the door. I've just remembered there was something else I want to talk to you about. Yes, sir. I thought it might be as well to speak to you about it before approaching Lady Constance. The fact is, Beach, I am feeling cramped. Indeed, sir. I forgot to mention that one of the symptoms from which I suffer is a sharp cramp. Too bad. But let us, if you do not mind, shelled for the moment the subject of your interior organism and its elements. When I say I am feeling cramped, I mean spiritually. Have you ever ridden Poetry, Beach? No, sir. Ah, that it may be a little difficult for you to understand my feelings. My trouble is this. Out in Canada, Beach, I drew accustomed to doing my work in the most solitary surroundings. You remember that passage in my songs of squalor, which begins across the pale parable of joy? I fear, sir. You missed it? Tough luck. Try to get hold of it some time. It's a bird. Well, that passage was written in a lonely hut on the banks of the Saskatchewan, miles away from human habitation. I am like that beach. I need the stimulus of the great open spaces. When I'm surrounded by my fellows, inspiration slackens and dies. You know how it is when there are people about. Just as you are starting in to write a nifty, someone comes and sits down on the desk and begins talking about himself. Every time you get going nicely, in barges some alien influence, and the muse goes bluey. You see what I mean? Yes, sir, said beach gaping slightly. Well, that is why for a man like me, existence in Blanding's castle has its drawbacks. I have got to get a place where I can be alone beach, alone with my dreams and visions, some little iry perched on the clips of time. In other words, do you know of an empty cottage somewhere on the estate where I could protect myself when in the mood and swing a nib without any possibility of being interrupted? A little cottage, sir. A little cottage with a honey-suckle over the door, an old Mr. Moon climbing up above the trees, a cottage beach where I can meditate, where I can turn the key in the door and bid the world go by. Now that the castle is going to be full of all these people who are coming for the county ball, it is imperative that I wangle such a haven, otherwise a considerable slab of priceless poetry will be lost to humanity forever. You desire, said beach feeling his way cautiously, a small cottage where you can write poetry, sir. You follow me like a leopard, do you know of such a one? There is an unoccupied game-keeper's cottage in the Westwood, sir, but it is an extremely humble place. Be it never so humble, it will do for me. Do you think Lady Constance would be offended if I were to ask for the loan of it for a few days? I fancy that her ladyship would receive the request with equanimity, sir. She is used to, she is not unaccustomed. Well, I can only say, sir, that there was a literary gentleman visiting the castle last summer who expressed a desire to take sunbaths in the garden each morning before breakfast, in the nude, sir. And beyond instructing me to warn the maids, her ladyship placed no obstacle in the way of the fulfilment of his wishes. So, so a modest request like mine isn't likely to cause a heart attack, admirable. You don't know what it means to me to feel that I shall soon have a little refuge of my own to which I can retreat and be in solitude. I can imagine that it must be extremely gratifying, sir. Then I will put the motion before the board, directly Lady Constance returns. A very good, sir. I should like to splash it on the record once more, Beech, that I am much obliged to you for your sympathy and advice in this matter. I knew that you would not fail me. Not at all, sir. I am only too glad to have been able to be of assistance. Oh, and Beech! Sir, just one other thing. Would you be seeing Coots my valet again shortly? Quite shortly, sir, I should imagine. Then would you mind just prodding him smartly in the lower ribs? Sir, cried Beech, startled out of his butlery and calm. He swallowed a little convulsively. For eighteen months and more, ever since Lady Constance Keeble had first begun to cast her fly and hook over the murky water of the artistic world and jerk its denizens onto the pile carpets of Blanding's castle, Beech had had his fill of eccentricity. But until this moment he had hoped that Smith was going to prove an agreeable change from the stream of literary lunatics which had been coming and going all that weary time. And lo, Smith's name led all the rest. Even the man who had come for a week in April and had wanted to eat jam with his fish paled in comparison. Prod him in the ribs, sir, he quavered. Prod him in the ribs, said Smith firmly, and at the same time whisper in his ear the word, Aha! Beech licked his dry lips. Aha, sir! Aha! And say it came from me. Very good, sir. The matter shall be attended to, said Beech. And with the muffled sound that was half a sigh, half a death-rattle, he tottered through the Green Bay's door. End of Chapter Nine