 Chapter 5, Part 1, of Bill the Conqueror. This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Bill the Conqueror by P. G. Woodhouse. Night Operations at Holly House. While the stirring events just recorded were in progress in and about the headquarters of the Mammoth Publishing Company at Tilbury House. Bill West had been sitting in markedly gloomy meditation on the little balcony which ran outside the dining-room of his flat in the Prince of Wales Road, Battersea. He had come out here because the silent reproach in the lovely eyes of the twelve photographs of Alice Cocher in the sitting-room had proved after a while too much for his sensitive conscience to endure. The disappearance of Judson had left him ill at ease and apprehensive, filling him with a guilty sense of having failed in his duty as a guardian, and the photographs, staring at him like so many accusing angels, deepened this feeling. Why, they seemed to ask, were you so remiss? You were my brother's keeper. Why did you not bean him with a shoe before he could make his getaway? The question was unanswerable. The most rudimentary intelligence should have told him that the course he ought to have pursued was to jump on Judson's neck, even if it involved diving down two flights of stairs, and thus prevent that earnest young inebriate from galloping out into the heart of London with money in his pocket. Now goodness knew what would happen or when, and in what shape, the air of the Cochers would return to the fold. His Prince of Wales Road balconies are pleasant eerie's. From their agreeable eminence you can see over the trees into Battersea Park and revel, if you are in the mood for it, in the delicate green of turf and shooting leaf. You can also see down the road for quite a distance both ways, and so it came about that just as dusk had begun to fall and the golden lamps shone out in the street below, Bill was aware of a familiar figure tramping along the pavement towards the entrance of Marmont Mansions. At first he was blankly incredulous. It could not be Judson. Judson must now be miles away, out where the West End begins, slaking a two-weeks-old thirst with cocktails. But the figure came into the light of a lamp, and it was indeed Judson. He entered Marmont Mansions, and Bill, leaving his balcony and hurrying to the front door, could hear him weasely negotiating the stairs. The flat was on the fifth floor, and there was no lift, two facts of which Judson had frequently and vehemently complained. He arrived now, puffing painfully, and for a space was deaf to Bill's reproaches. Eh! he said, eventually a little restored. I said, so here you are! Observed Bill, selecting for a repetition one of the milder of his recent remarks, Judson led the way into the sitting-room where he sank down on the sofa, and, as Bill had done earlier in the afternoon, removed his shoes. Nail or something, he explained. You're a nice chap, said Bill, returning to the attack. Judson was defiant and unashamed. As a matter of fact, he replied, stoutly, I haven't had even one. To start with, I find that in this infernal country the saloons don't open till midnight, or some ghastly hour, so I couldn't get a drink at first, and after that I was too busy. Too busy to get a drink? cried Bill. He followed his friend bewildered. Judson had risen from the sofa and proceeded to his bedroom, where he now began to put on another and more congenial pair of shoes. Too busy to get a drink? Well, too preoccupied, said Judson. He poured out a basin of water, washed his travel-stained face and hands, and, moving to the mirror, brushed his hair. I've had a very disturbing afternoon, Bill, oh man. How much money have you got on you? Never mind about money, oh fellow. Said Judson, waving aside the tactless question, I want to tell you about my disturbing afternoon. He lit a cigarette and returned to the sitting-room. Can only stop a minute, Bill, he said. Got to go out again in a second. Bill laughed, a frosty laugh. Any old time you go out. Must, said Judson, matter that affects my honour. Got to see a fellow and have justice done me. You don't want justice done you, said Bill, beginning to doubt his friend's professions of abstinence. There was a wild look in Judson's eye and his manner was peculiar. If they started doing justice to you, you'd be in the penitentiary. Judson drew pensively at his cigarette. He seemed not to have heard this appropriate remark. Most disturbing afternoon, he continued. You ever read a paper called Society Spice, Bill, oh man? No, what about it? Only this, responded Judson. There's a piece in it this week saying that it was Toddy van Rijder who founded the Fifth Avenue Silks. Toddy van Rijder, a spine-chilling laugh, escaped him. You know as well as I do, Bill, oh man, that a poor fish like Toddy wouldn't have been able to hit on an idea like that in a million years. I was the little guy that founded those silks, and I'm not going to have all England thinking I wasn't. Toddy van Rijder, sneered to Judson, I ask you, Toddy? The cigarette burned his fingers and he threw it into the grate. I read that while I was on a train in the subway, and I went straight to the place where the rotten rag was published and asked to see the editor. Fellow must have a guilty conscience because he refused to see me, and when I cornered him on the street a bit later he just shot into a cab and streaked off. But I was too smart for him, said Judson with a hard chuckle. It will be a cold day when any pie-faced scandal sheet buzzered can make a monkey out of me. I got his home address. I'm going right now to see him and insist on an apology and retraction in the next issue. You aren't going to do anything of the sort. I am, believe me. Bill tried an appeal to his reason. But what does it matter if the man did say Toddy founded the silks? What does it matter? When his eyes grew round he stared at Bill as if questioning his sanity. What does it matter? Do you think I'm going to have the whole of Europe believe in a thing like that? Not while I have my strength. I suppose if you were Marconi you'd take it lying down if people went about saying you hadn't invented the wireless. Well, mustn't waste time sitting here. See you later. Six photographs on the mantelpiece gazed at Bill pleadingly. Three on the what-not, two on the console table, and one on a bracket near the door caught his eye and urged him to be firm. Where does this society-spice man live? He asked. Number seven Litterdale Mansions, Sloan Square. Said Judson promptly. He had no need to consult the back of the envelope in his breast-pocket for the address was graven upon his heart. I'm going there now. You aren't going there or anywhere. Said Bill firmly, without me. What do you think? He choked. What do you think she would say if I let you run about all over London getting into trouble? Judson followed his sweeping hand in the direction of the mantelpiece, but showed little emotion. Too few brothers in this world are capable of being melted by a sister's photograph. But though he appeared unimpressed by the thought of Alice and her possible concern, a certain bias towards prudence did seem to enter his mind. Not a bad idea you're coming to, he admitted. Quite likely fellow may turn nasty. Then you could sit on his head while I kicked him in the slats. Only way with these birds. Treat him rough. Bill was cold to this outline of policy. There isn't going to be any rough stuff, he said firmly. And you aren't going to butt in and start anything. You will leave the whole business to me. This sort of affair needs a man with a calm, clear mind. I want you to understand right from the beginning that I am handling this. You stay in the background and leave me to do the talking. No violence. What if he doesn't turn nasty? If he does, said Judson, we will form a wedge and sail in and disembowel them met. He won't turn nasty. Why should he? He will probably be only too glad to correct an error in his paper. He'd better be, said Judson grimly. The descent through the roof of Holly House and subsequent explosion on the drawing-room carpet of a large bomb would doubtless have caused a certain excitement and dismay among the inmates of that fair home. But such consternation could hardly have been more marked than that which had followed Flick's announcement that she had broken off her engagement to Roderick Pike. Sir George, arriving in a luxurious limousine a few minutes after the blow had fallen, was in nice time to join the commission appointed by his sister to inquire into and examine the tragedy. She gives no reason! Wailed Mrs. Hammond for the tenth time. For once in her masterly life this great woman was completely unnerved. Any ordinary disaster she might have coped with, but this was too shattering. The ghastly suddenness of it was perhaps its most appalling feature. No warning, no shadow of a warning had preceded the blow. Only after two o'clock Flick had left the house, thoroughly and completely engaged to Roderick, and at half-past seven she had come back with a hard gleam in her blue eyes, freed from all sentimental entanglements. And that was all that Mrs. Hammond or anybody knew, for Flick, as she was now remarking for the eleventh time, gave no reason. In addition to being terrible, the thing was achingly mysterious, and quite half of Mrs. Hammond's exasperation and fury was due to the fact that she was being excluded from sharing in a secret. She raged impotently, and when Sir George was ushered in by Wase, the butler, dimurly grave, as only a butler can be when something is up above stairs, she had just snubbed the unfortunate Sinclair rather ferociously for the second time in three minutes. Upon receipt of this second rebuff, Sinclair Hammond had withdrawn from the discussion. As a rule, so long as people did not interrupt him when he was writing, or attribute to Basius Secundus, sentiments which had actually been uttered by Aristides of Smyrna, it was not easy to ruffle Sinclair Hammond. But irritability was in the air tonight, and having twice been requested for goodness' sake not to talk such nonsense, he retired wounded into a corner and buried himself in a first edition of Robert Byrne's poems, chiefly in the Scottish dialect, printed by John Wilson Kilmarnock, 1786, uncut in the original Blue Wrappers. How deeply he had been hurt is shown by the fact that even this did not, altogether, soothe him. Sir George, taking his place in the debate, was at first as helplessly concerned as any one, it was he who pointed out the dramatic feature of the affair to wit that poor Roderick, who could not possibly have received Flick's letter yet, might be expected to arrive at any moment in complete ignorance of what had happened. How, Sir George demanded, was the news to be broken to him? The question started a train of thought. How also, Mrs. Hammond inquired feverishly, was a scandal to be kept from the half-dozen or so of Wimbledon's elect, who had been invited to dine to-night, expressly to meet the about-to-be-happy couple. The Wilkinsons from Heath Prospect were coming. The bing-jure voices from the towers were coming. Pondicherry Lodge was contributing Colonel and Mrs. Bagshot what possible explanation could be made to these leaders of society of Felicia's absence. Felicia's absence? Sir George started. What do you mean, Felicia's absence? She refuses to come down to dinner. Tell them she's got a headache. He had Mr. Hammond glancing up from his burns. Oh, do be quiet, Sinclair, begged his suffering wife. Mr. Hammond returned to his reading. Sir George, whose face and bearing had taken on that stiff solemnity which always reminded his employees at Tilbury House, so strongly of a stuffed frog, puffed vigorously, refuses to come down to dinner. I never heard of anything so ridiculous. I will speak to her. Send for her at once. It's no good sending for her, moaned Mrs. Hammond. She has locked herself in her bedroom and won't come out, which is her room. The second door to the left on the first landing. What are you going to do, George? Sir George turned on the threshold. I am going to speak to her, he said. There was an interval of some three or four minutes. In the drawing-room a tense silence prevailed. Mrs. Hammond sat rigid on her chair. Bob, the celium, slumbered on the rug. Mr. Hammond put down his burns and rising, walked to the French windows and threw them open. He stood looking out into the gentle night. The garden slept under the stars, and a breeze floated across the lawn. Peace, peace, everywhere save in this stricken home. A distant rumble from above proclaimed that Sir George was still speaking to her. Presently the rumble ceased. Footsteps descended the stairs. Sir George entered. His face was red, and he was breathing a little heavily. The girl's mad, he announced briefly. There is nothing to be done for the present, but make some excuse to these people who are coming here tonight. Better tell them she's got a headache. An excellent idea, said Mrs. Hammond, with enthusiasm. We will. Colonel and Mrs. Bagshot. Proclaimed Wase, the butler, in the doorway. His slightly prominent eyes swept the little group before him with respectful commiseration. Do the best you can. His glance seemed to say, it's beyond me. A taxi cab drew up at the door of Litterdale Mansions, Sloan Square. Bill West alighted and spoke through the window. You wait here, said Bill. I'll go up and see this man. Judson appeared doubtful. Well, I don't know, he said. Seems to me this is a business that wants handling. Are you sure you're equal to it? If only you keep out of it, I can settle the whole affair in two minutes, said Bill firmly. He felt unusually calm and capable as he entered the building. As a rule, it is a nervous task to call upon a perfect stranger and ask favours of him. But Bill felt no diffidence. He looked forward to an amusing chat. It was only when he had gone up a couple of floors in the lift and was interrogated by the attendant as to where he wished to stop that he remembered that he had omitted to ask Judson the name of the man he had come to interview. A little ruffled by the captious manner of the attendant on being requested to take him down again after a brief indulgence in what the latter evidently looked upon as a joy ride, he went out to the cab. Well, said Judson eagerly, popping out like a cuckoo out of a clock. What did he say? I haven't seen him yet. Bill explained. I forgot to ask you what his name is. Look here, said Judson in an anxious voice, his faith in his ambassador now plainly at zero. Are you sure you're equal to this? Hadn't I better push up? You stay here, said Bill. He had lost that easy calm. I have a feeling that you'll bungle it. Don't be a chump. What's his name? Pike. But—Pike. All right. That's all I wanted to know. He re-entered the lift and was shot up to the third floor only to receive another check. If Bill had been a superstitious man he would have realized at this point that the omens were bad and that it would be a wise course to abandon the expedition. A man-servant answering this ring informed him that Mr. Pike had gone out. Just gone this moment, sir. But I've only just come up, argued Bill. Why didn't I meet him? Perhaps Mr. Pike walked downstairs, sir. It seemed a tenable theory. At any rate the man was gone. Bill, unwilling to trouble the lift attendant again, walked downstairs himself and, reaching the cab, found Judson in a state bordering on the febrile. Judson was dancing on the pavement. I knew you would bungle it! He cried. The fellow sneaked out half a second ago. Tried to get into my cab. Tried to get into your cab? Yes. Didn't know there was anybody in it. He peered in, saw me, turned deadly pale, and... Judson broke off, pointing, Look! Quick! There he is! Getting into that taxi over there! Get in! Jump in, you poor fish! The affair, which had started out in so orderly and well-planned a manner, was now beginning to take on a hectic aspect which flustered Bill. The jerk with which Judson dragged him into the taxi helped further to disorder his faculties, and when his companion, leaning across him and speaking out of the window, uttered those words familiar to every reader of detective stories, Follow that cab wherever it goes! The Enterprise stepped definitely into the ranks of waking nightmares. To call upon a stranger and ask him civilly to insert in his paper a correction of an inadvertent error is one thing. To hound him about London in cabs quite another. Bill had a well-regulated man's dislike of scenes, and it seemed to him that this pursuit could only end in a scene of the most disagreeable nature. Already Judson had begun to babble harsh comments on the man whose taxi, keenly pursued by their own, was moving rapidly down the street towards Sloan Square. It was Judson's firm belief that the fellow was in the pay of Todd Yvonne Reiter. If not, why should he jump ten feet sideways every time they met? Taken by and large, the whole thing looked like a pretty black business to Judson. He seathed with generous indignation, and even went so far as to state his intention, should they ever catch up with him, of busting the fellow one on the snoot. As the moments went by, it almost seemed as though these sentiments must have communicated themselves by some sort of telepathy to the man in the other cab. For his taxi went on, and on, and on. The theory that he was going out to dine somewhere now seemed thin. Would any diner out dine so far out as this? Already they were well into the Fulham Road, and he showed no signs of stopping. They rattled over Putney Bridge. They climbed Putney Hill, and still the taxi in front moved forward. It began to appear absurd, even to Bill, reluctant as he was to abandon the common-sense view, that this pike could simply be on his way to dinner. It seemed more probable that his intention was to go on till he reached the coast, and then jump off the edge. In attributing these qualms to Roderick, his pursuers had aired. True, Roderick had had what amounted to the start of a lifetime when that glance into Judson's taxi had informed him that the mysterious stranger was still on his trail. But panic had passed as soon as he had got into a cab of his own, and driven off. It had not occurred to him that he was being chased. Arriving at Holly House he paid his driver and rang the doorbell without even a look behind. It was only as he waited on the step for Waste to answer the bell that the crackling of gravel in his rear caused him to turn his head. The shock he received on observing a second cab tearing down the drive was severe. A faint hope that this might be a peaceful cab containing blameless dinner guests of his Aunt Frances vanished as he perceived Judson's inflamed face protruding from the right hand window. He lunged desperately at the bell again and waited for Waste as the Duke of Wellington in another crisis had waited for Bluehair. The cab stopped. From one door Judson shot out, from the other Bill. Roderick rang the bell again, staring glassily over his shoulder. Oddly enough it was the sight of Bill that set the seal on his horror, and yet, had he but known, Bill was here in the purest spirit of pacifism. What had caused Bill to project himself so vigorously out of the cab was the kindly desire to be on the scene of action in time to keep Judson from committing the mayhem of which he had spoken so feelingly at practically every stage of the journey. Bill was the wise, cool, clear-headed man who was there to stop any violence, but to Roderick he seemed the most dreadful thing that had come along in the whole course of this dreadful day. Judson, so held Roderick, was bad enough. He was pretty scared of Judson, but about Judson there was this consoling feature that he had a certain weediness, a lack of fuse and sinews. With Judson a fellow, if driven into a corner, might possibly cope. But Bill was quite another matter. A man cannot fulfill the exacting duties of left tackle on a Harvard football team without having a fairly impressive physique. No mere amyability or charm of manner will fit him for the post. He must be equipped with India rubber legs, a chest like an ice-box, and the shoulders of a prize-fighter. These qualifications Bill possessed. He stood five feet eleven in his socks, and weighed on the hoof one hundred and ninety-three pounds, and Roderick, watching him bound up the drive, unhesitatingly cast him for the role of star in this murder scene. The consequence was that when Bill reached the steps just as Wase opened the door, Roderick, trapped and desperate, saw nothing for it but to sell his life dearly, whirling his stick madly in the air, he brought it down with a solid whack on Bill's head. Bill, totally unprepared for anything of this kind, tripped and fell. Judson, hurrying up, stumbled over Bill, and Roderick, snatching at the chance thus presented, of affecting a masterly retreat, dashed into the house and slammed the door after him. Of all the things calculated to modify a wise, cool, clear-headed outlook on life, few are more effective than a brisk buffet on the skull from a heavy stick. In this case the blow was rendered all the more powerful by the striker's terror, and Bill's hat having fallen off in his sprint down the straight, there was nothing to break the force of it. He remained for an appreciable space of time sitting dastily on the gravel, and when eventually he rose, his mood had undergone a complete and remarkable change. No trace remained of his recent desire to keep this business free from violence. Violence was what he wanted more than anything on earth. He looked on the world through a crimson mist, and this new frame of mind, the spectacle of Judson hopping about, in a futile manner exasperated him intensely. He was in the mood when men, usually tolerant of their fellow creatures, conceive a sudden dislike for whoever happens to be nearest. He glowered at Judson. Go and sit in the cab! He commanded, with set teeth. But look here, Bill, man! Go on! I'm going to attend to this business. What are you going to do? Bill's finger was on the bell, and he kept it there without pause. A few short hours before, life had been a thing opening out before him in a prismatic vista of manifold ambitions. He had had all sorts of plans. Plans for making a fortune. Plans for marrying Alice Coker. Plans for scoring off Wilfred Slingsby. Now all these rainbow visions had passed from his mind, and he had but one object in the world, just one. And that was to get into this house, find the fellow who had sloshed him on the bean, and methodically kick the man's spine up through his back hair. He was in the mood which used to send ancient Vikings berserk, which makes modern melees run amok and prod the citizenry with long knives. Like most big men, Bill West was good-natured. He did not readily take offence, but hit him an absolutely unprovoked wallop on the head with a stick, and you started something. He continued to ring the bell. I'm going to have a heart-to-heart talk with that fellow, he said, grimly. Judson's feelings were now those of a child who, sportling idly with a pocket-knife beside a reservoir, finds suddenly that he has bored a hole in the dam. He had unchained passions which overawed him. Frothily though he had talked of inflicting violence on the erring Roderick, Judson had never really intended business. He knew now that he would not have proceeded beyond words. But in Bill's program words had only to plainly no part at all. To see Bill, that mild and good-humored young man, standing there with his teeth bare, his eyes glittering, and a thin trickle of blood running down his forehead, appalled Judson. He felt weakly unequal to the situation. With a pale face and limp knees he returned to the cab, and as he did so the door opened. Waste the butler had been annoyed by the strident persistence of the bell. It was with the intention of administering a severe rebuke that he now presented himself. But the words he had framed were never uttered. Something large and solid brushed Waste out of the way, and staggering back he saw a big man without a hat, careering along the hall in the direction of the drawing-room. Hi! he said, feebly. The intruder paid no attention. He had stopped for an instant as if uncertain of his destination, but now a burst of voices from behind the door put him on the scent. His fingers closed on the handle. Hi! said Waste again. Stop! Bill did not stop. He plunged on into the drawing-room. The drawing-room was full of men and women dressed and eager for the feast. Here Mr. Wilkinson of Heath Prospect chatted about the weather to Mrs. Hammond. There Mrs. Bing Jervoy's of the Towers spoke to her host of new plays. Colonel Bagshot was drinking sherry and entertaining Mrs. Wilkinson with an account of his most recent passage of arms with the local council. Mr. George and Mr. Bing Jervoy's were talking politics. Roderick, a solitary figure attached to no group, stood by the open window. Into this refined gathering Bill charged like a ravening wolf. And Roderick, turning with the others at the sound of the opening door and catching sight of his ghastly face, acted promptly. This was the fourth time to-day that he had felt the imperative need of flight from forces beyond his control. And nimble though he had shown himself on each of the previous occasions, his movements then had been leaden-footed compared with the turn of speed which he exhibited now. He shot out into the garden like a cannon-ball with Bill in close attendance. Chapter 5 Part 2 of Bill the Conqueror This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Bill the Conqueror by P. G. Woodhouse. The young need, careful handling, into the life of the most docile and well-regulated girl, there comes crises, where only tact and sympathy can avert disaster. And ever since Flick Sheridan had made her momentous announcement respecting Roderick, tact and sympathy had been very notably absent from the attitude of her immediate circle. It was perhaps unfortunate that Mrs. Hammond, always prone to supersede her husband in the conduct of delicate operations about the home, had declined with some asperity to allow the amiable Sinclair to go up and have a chat with his niece. For this eliminated from the situation the one person to whom Flick, in her mood of bristling defiance, would have listened with any calmness. Instead of a gentle talk with Uncle Sinclair, Flick had been plunged into a battle-royal with her Aunt Frances, a contest which had left her, though undefeated, badly shaken. And immediately on top of this had come Sir George's brief address through the locked door. At about the time when the cab of Roderick and that of Bill and Judson were toiling up Putney Hill, she was seated on her bed staring into the future. It was not a very agreeable future for any girl to look at, certainly not a girl who, like Flick, was of a quick and gallant spirit and had always held herself to be the captain of her soul. It was a future filled with wrangling arguments, cold, hurt silences, a never-ending strain, never-ending, that is to say, unless she meekly yielded and consented to marry Roderick. And at the thought of marrying Roderick, Flick's teeth clicked together and she blinked rebelliously. Nothing should ever induce her to marry Roderick. She loved Bill West. Uncle Sinclair had spoken flippantly about juvenile romances, but that extraordinary meeting with Bill this afternoon had shown her that these were not things to jest about. They were beastly solid facts that hurt you indescribably. Oh, she knew how absurd it was of her. She knew that Bill was in love with some starry-eyed cat of a girl out in America and wouldn't look at her anyway. But that made no difference. If she couldn't have Bill, she wouldn't have anyone, least of all Roderick, who jumped into cabs and left her standing on the pavement at the mercy, for all he knew, of men who looked like aerodail terriers. She jerked up her head with a sudden unconscious movement of defiance and resolution. She had made her decision. The next moment she was opening her bag and feeling in it for the money earmarked earlier in the day for the relief of the distressed Mrs. Matilda Pauly. She pulled out the notes and dropped them in a rustling heap on the bed. They made an encouraging display. If she had ever thought of weakening and drawing back, the sight of this money gave her strength. It seemed to her a vast sum, the sort of sum on which a girl of careful habits could face the world indefinitely. And in the distant future, when she had spent all this wealth, there was all the rest of her jewelry to fall back on. She hesitated no longer. She went to cupboards, ransacked drawers. She pulled a suitcase out from under the bed. After a thoughtful interval, devoted to making a selection of the things she could not possibly do without, she packed the suitcase. She scribbled a hasty note in pencil and fastened it to her pin cushion. She tore the sheet from the bed and tied knots in it. She attached the sheet to the rail of the bed, dragged the bed to the window, and had just flung the window open. Then from the garden below there came to her ears a sudden uproar. With a startling abruptness, the quiet night had become filled with noise and shouting. Flick leaned out, deeply interested. If there is one spot in the world free as a rule from alarms and excursions, it is the aristocratic quarter of Wimbledon. That row of large mansions along the edge of the common were wealth and respectability, dream, and let the world go by. In all the five years of her residence at Holly House, Flick could recall no event of any description that had even bordered on drama. Yet now, if she could believe the evidence of her ears, drama was stalking abroad in the night, as nakedly as in the more vivacious portions of Moscow. Dark figures were racing about on the lawn. Voices shouted hoarsely. She could detect the deep bay of Colonel Bagshot of Ponticherry Lodge, the shriller yapping of Mr. Bing's Your Voice of the Towers. Her Uncle George was bawling to somebody to fetch a policeman. Flick forgot her troubles in the thrill of these amazing goings on. She leaned farther out of the window, annoyed by the fact that her vision was much impeded by the roof of a sort of outhouse immediately below her window. A few moments before, she had been extremely grateful to Providence for having supplied this outhouse roof as an aid to her escape. But now she resented its presence. The spirit of youth called to her not to miss a bit of this, for it was good, and she chafed to think that she was missing practically all of it. The shouts increased in volume. The flying figures continued to fly. Then suddenly, there echoed through the night a tremendous splash. Even an onlooker whose view was cut off by an outhouse roof could interpret the inner meaning of this. And Flick understood it instantly. Somebody had fallen into the pond. She hoped it was her Uncle George. It was her Uncle George. And he made his own personal needs so manifest in a vigorous speech from the depths that the pursuit ceased on the instant and all present rallied round to lend him aid and comfort. All except Bill. Bill was otherwise occupied. Retired altogether now from the maelstrom of activity on the lawn, he was crouching in the shadow of a large bush, reviewing his position. The first fine frenzy that had carried Bill through the front door into the drawing room and through the French windows of the drawing room out into the garden in pursuit of Roderick had kept him going nicely for perhaps two minutes. At the end of that time the folly of chasing people about strange gardens in the dark was brought home to him in no uncertain manner by a wheelbarrow left by Gardner John in the shadows at the edge of the lawn. It was a low, underslung wheelbarrow, quite invisible in the gloom, and he had dived over it with a shattering bump which gave him a momentary impression that Wimbledon and neighborhood had been convulsed by an earthquake. A young man, less accustomed to falls on the football field, might have lain there indefinitely, but Bill staggered dizzily to his feet and it was at this point that he discovered that the fever of the chase had completely left him. As he stood there, dazedly wishing himself elsewhere, he perceived that the whole aspect of the world had undergone another change. A moment before it had been a roomy place with nobody in it but Roderick and himself. But now there appeared to be people everywhere. Large though the garden was, it seemed uncomfortably crowded, and the chase, which had started out as a straight issue between himself and Roderick, had become quite a public affair. The thing had developed into a sort of wall-purchase night. Phantoms whizzed to and fro. Demon voices bellowed advice and threats. An unseen dog was barking its head off. Bill was appalled by his position. That is the worst of Berserk moods. They lure you into stupendous acts of imbecility and then coolly abandon you to extricate yourself as best you can. A chilly remorse flooded over him. He saw now where his initial mistake had lain. He ought to have taken from the start an attitude altogether more dignified and formal. Instead of charging into the house of a complete stranger, breathing fire through his nostrils, and seeking whom he might devour, he should have gone quietly away, and on the morrow approached some good lawyer, with a view to bringing suit against the man-pike for assault and battery. Not having taken this prudent course, he was, he roofily admitted, in a distinctly unpleasant whole. The descent of Sir George into the Goldfish pond had given him a respite, but it was plain that it was not to last long. A nasty spirit of vindictiveness prevailed in the enemy camp, and his voices were urging once more that the police be summoned. He must get out of this infernal garden, and that, right speedily, before they started to make a systematic search. Unfortunately it was only too clear that to leave the garden now he would have to fight his way out, for already people were shouting to other people to guard the exits. The task that lay immediately before him was to find some nook, some haven, some retired spot, where he might hope to avoid discovery. The night, as mysteriously happens when we stay out in it for any length of time, had now become appreciably lighter. Objects previously hidden began to reveal themselves, and among them was a sort of out-house place that stood against the wall of the building some six feet from the bush in which he was lurking. Only a fraction of a second passed between the sighting of this out-house by Bill and his realization that here, if anywhere, safety lay. The entire strength of the company appeared to have their attention concentrated at the moment on the goldfish pond, from which proceeded squashy sounds as of some solid body being gaffed and hauled ashore. Bill seized his opportunity with the promptitude of a strategist. Slighting softly out of his bush, he heaved himself in one scrabbling leap onto the out-house roof, and lay there motionless. Nobody appeared to have observed him. A detachment of the enemy forces moved across the lawn and passed beneath him, Sir George walking squelchily in their sympathetic midst. The others, calling to one another at intervals, were prowling about, beating the bushes. But nobody thought of examining roofs. And after a lapse of time, which might have been ten minutes or ten hours, the pursuit finally sagged away to nothingness. First one, then another of the prowlers, gave the thing up and drifted back into the house until, at long last, the garden was its silent sleeping self again. But Bill remained where he was. At times of tense emotion we tend to extremes, and the vanishing of the berserk mood had been followed by one of the utmost weariness. He had the night before him, and he meant to allow himself a generous margin of safety. The longer he waited, the better his chances of slipping away without any uncongenial brawling. He had had all the brawling he wanted for one night. At length, however, when he had begun to feel that he had been lying on the roof since early childhood, he decided that it was safe to make a move. He slithered cautiously into a sitting position and rubbed his cramped limbs. And then, as he was about to rise and lower himself to the ground, every nerve in his body leaped simultaneously and twisted itself at the ends. Something had fallen with a thud, not two feet from where he stood. Looking round defensively, he discovered that it was a suitcase. Why people were throwing suitcases out of windows at such an hour, he could not imagine. His speculations on this problem were interrupted by the sight of something even more remarkable, a dark figure apparently crawling down the side of the house. A man with all the world, or at any rate part of Wimbledon, embraced him, inclines naturally to see enemies everywhere, and builds reactions on becoming aware of this figure descending onto what he had grown to regard as his own private roof, were at first purely militant. He retired a few steps and braced himself for combat. It was too dark to get a clear view, but the person who was crawling down the wall appeared to be of a slender physique, and he looked forward to the coming encounter with a bright confidence. For while he was not afraid of the bulkiest foe, it is always pleasanter if you are going to have a roughened tumble to have it with somebody a trifle undersized. He could eat this midget, and unless the midget behaved itself he proposed to do so. The figure alighted, and at the same moment Bill made his spring. It was only when a startled squeak rang out in the darkness that he was embarrassed to discover that he was grappling with a girl, at which point the militant mood vanished abruptly to be succeeded by one of amazed consternation. The man who lays a hand upon a woman, save in the way of kindness, is justly looked ascance at by society. What then can be said for the man who tackles her as if she were trying to get past him on the football field? Bill was bathed in a prickly shame. I beg your pardon, he cried. Flick did not reply. It had never occurred to her when she began her dissent of the knotted sheet that violent giants were going to bound out at her from the night. And the shock had almost caused her to faint. She stood there, panting. I'm awfully sorry, said Bill contritely. I thought, I didn't know, I had an idea. I've dropped my purse, said Flick, dizzily. Allow me, said Bill. A match sputtered, its light shone on Bill's face as he groped about the roof on all fours. Mr. West? cried Flick, amazed. Bill, who had just found the purse, sprang upright. Of all the bizarre events of the night, this was the most astonishing. I'm Felicia Sheridan, said Flick. Such was Bill's perturbation that for a moment the name conveyed nothing to him. Then he remembered. Good heavens, he exclaimed. What are you doing here? I live here. But what are you doing crawling down walls, I mean? I'm running away. Running away? From home. You're running away from home? Said Bill, mystified. I don't understand. Don't speak so loud, whispered Flick. They may hear. The good sense of this warning appealed to Bill. He lowered his voice. Why are you running away from home? He asked. What are you doing on this roof? Asked Flick. What's the idea? Inquired Bill. What has been happening out in the garden? countered Flick. I heard all sorts of noise and shouting. Bill felt it would be a beginning in the direction of clearing up the situation if he answered her questions before putting his. Otherwise they might stay here all night, conducting an endless duologue. It was not a brief task, explaining the motives which had brought him to this house. But this done, the rest of his story was simple and straightforward. He related it crisply. The man biffed me over the head with a stick. He concluded, and after that, and nothing in the world seemed to matter except getting in here after him. It was a crazy thing to do, of course. I see that now. But it seemed a darn good idea at the time. Biffed you over the head with a stick? Said Flick, marveling. Who hit you with a stick? This fellow, Pike, his name is Roderick. No, Pike. His name, said Flick, is Roderick Pike. That's why I'm running away. This struck Bill as a non-sequitur. Women do eccentric things, but surely the most temperamental girl would hardly leave her home simply because a man's name was Roderick Pike. They wanted me to marry him. Bill's mystification vanished. He shuddered with sympathetic horror. A moment before he had been conscious of a certain disapproval of Flick's scheme of running away from home, and had intended, when the opportunity presented itself, to try to dissuade her. But this piece of news altered the whole aspect of the matter. Naturally she was running away. Anybody would. No lengths to which a girl could go to avoid marrying the bounder who had biffed him with a stick appeared extreme to Bill. There and then he executed a complete change of attitude and was now wholeheartedly in favor of the project, and resolved to do all that in him lay to push it along. Marry that blighter? He exclaimed incredulously. Of course in some ways he's quite nice. He is not, said Bill vehemently, and passed a gingerly hand over his corrugated skull. To his sensitive imagination the lump under his hair seemed to stick up like a mountain peak. Well, I'm not going to marry him anyway, said Flick, so the only thing to do is to run away. The trouble is, she said ruefully, I don't in the least know where to go. Your best plan is to come back with me to Marmont Mansions, said Bill. We can talk it over quietly there and decide on something. I suppose that is best. We certainly can't stay on this roof any moment somebody may come along and find us. Flick betrayed some agitation. I wonder if it's safe to try to get away. There seems to be nobody in the garden. I can't hear anybody. I suppose they've all gone in to dinner. There was a dinner party on to-night, and I know Colonel Bagshot for one wouldn't want to wait too long for his food whatever had been happening. What do you suppose the time is? I haven't an idea. It must be long past eight. It was nearly that when I got here. I tell you what, said Flick, you jump down and creep round the house to get to the front door. If the windows next to it are lighted, and you can hear voices, it will mean they're in at dinner. Good idea. If everything's all right, I'll whistle. Flick stood in the darkness waiting. The tremulous excitement which had filled her as she started to climb down the sheet had given way to a calmer and more agreeable mood. Bill, it seemed to her, had been sent from heaven to assist her in her hour of need. She had had only the vaguest idea of what she intended to do when she had escaped from Holly House, but now there was someone she could lean on. Bill was so big and comforting, a rock of strength. Slightly overestimating his mental capacity in her enthusiasm, she considered that there was no problem in existence too big for Bill to tackle. A low whistle cut through the little night sounds of the garden. She leaned over the edge of the roof. All right, said Bill's voice in a cautious whisper, drop me down your suitcase. Flick dropped the suitcase. He caught it skillfully. She lowered herself over the roof and was seized by a strong pair of hands and deposited gently on the ground. We're all in at dinner, said Bill. Shall we get out by the front, or do you know a better way? There's a door in the wall across the lawn, it'll be safer using that. They crept cautiously across the lawn. Something small and white snuffled in the darkness. Flick stooped with a little cry. Bob! She rose with a dog in her arms. For the first time a sense of bereavement swept over her. Oh, I can't leave Bob. Bring him along, said Bill. Flick's heart swelled with adoration for this godlike man who made no difficulties, raised no chilling obstacles or objections. She choked. Bob, who had had a great night so far and approved of the way things were shaping, licked her face frantically as they passed through the door. Batch, closing behind her, clicked a brief farewell. Holly House was a thing of the past. Flick stood in the road with the world before her. All right? Said Bill, understandingly. Quite all right, thanks! Said Flick, but in a voice that shook a little. Bill stood with his back against a mantle-piece of his sitting-room, and smoked a thoughtful pipe. He was glad to be safe once more in the castle-like seclusion of marmant mansions. Apart from the spiritual relief of being several miles away from the house, from which he had, probably quite illegally, helped a young girl to escape, there was the bodily comfort of being warm again. Almost immediately after the exodus from Holly House, the mellowness of the night had changed to a raw chill, aided and abetted by a penetrating wind that sprang up from the east, and they had had to walk a shivering mile before they found a cab. Now they were home, the fire was blazing and everything was jolly. He looked down at Flick. She was lying back in an arm-chair with her eyes closed, Bob the celium slumbering on her lap. The sight of her did something to diminish Bill's sense of well-being. Yet mysteriously, at the same time it seemed to make it deeper, it was as if two conflicting voices spoke simultaneously in Bill's subconscious, one saying, You poor impulsive ass, what have you let yourself in for? The other, it makes the old home look very cozy, does it not, a girl sitting in an arm-chair with her hat off and a dog in her lap? He weighed the contending claims of these two voices. Most certainly there was much in what the first voice said. Not legally, perhaps not even morally, but beyond a doubt romantically, he was responsible for this girl. The gods of high adventure do not permit a young man in the springtime to smuggle a girl away from her home by night, and then bid her a civil goodbye and think no more of her. Bill, as has been repeatedly stated before, was pledged for all eternity to Alice Coker, whose twelve photographs stared down from the mantelpiece and what not. One might have said a little austerely, but he felt very keenly a bond between himself and Flick. The details of the thing could be thought out later, but about the broad outline there was no argument possible. Here she was, under his charge, and somehow or other he had got to look after her and see that she came to no harm. He managed after a while to quiet the first voice by advancing the suggestion that a girl would not run away from home without some sort of a plan in her mind, and moreover, living in a house of that magnificence, she probably had a large private income. She would be all right, he urged. He then had leisure to listen to the second voice. There was no denying the truth of what the second voice was saying. The presence of Flick did make the place look cozy. She was not Alice Coker, of course, but somehow at the moment the fact did not seem to matter so much. Bill found himself oddly soothed by the mere act of looking at Flick. Two attempts to pretend, simply because his whole soul was wrapped up in Alice Coker, that Flick had not a decorative effect on his sitting-room, would have been merely foolish. He admitted freely that she had. Indeed, without the slightest disloyalty, of course, he was obliged to own that in such a position her flower-like prettiness had certain advantages over Alice's queenly, and to a diffident man rather overpowering beauty. The thing turned on a matter of personality. Flick, if one might put it that way, blended gently and harmoniously into the atmosphere of a fellow sitting-room. Whereas there was that about Alice's stupendous loveliness that always seemed to make her hit any place which she entered like a shell bursting in the midst of a fanfare of trumpets. Before Bill could penetrate any further into the depths of analysis, Flick gave a little sigh and sat up. She stared for a moment at her surroundings as if bewildered. I couldn't think where I was, she said. Have I been asleep? You did doze off for a minute or two. How rude of me! Not at all, Bill assured her. How are you feeling now? Hungry, said Flick, starving. I haven't had a bite to eat since lunch. Good Lord! And I had a very light lunch because it seemed wicked to be stuffing oneself with food when people like Mrs. Matilda Pauley hadn't tasted a thing for three days. That reminds me, didn't you say that your friend lived here with you? Where is he? Bill lowered his pipe in sudden consternation. I'd clean forgotten about Judson. He exclaimed, blankly, Good Heavens! He may be running all over London. When did you see him last? When the man-pike whacked me over the head, I told him to go and sit in the cab. You don't think he's still sitting there? It'll be awfully expensive if he is. I suppose the clock was ticking up three pence's all the time. No, he must have left, of course. Then goodness knows, said Bill dejectedly where he is now. Dick was a healthy girl and had a healthy appetite. The question of Judson's whereabouts competed but feebly for her interest with the thought of food. You haven't such a thing as a biscuit or anything, have you? She asked, wistfully, or a leg of mutton, or a tongue, or a round of beef, or a piece of cheese, or anything like that. I'm awfully sorry, said Bill, aroused to a realization of his position as host. I should have got you something long ago. I'll forage in the larder. He left the room hurriedly and returned some minutes later with a laden tray which he nearly dropped on the threshold in his dismay at the sound of a muffled sob. He did drop a knife and two forks, and the clatter caused flick to start and turn a tear-stained face in his direction. It's nothing, she assured him. Bill put the tray down on the table. What's the matter? He asked, agitated. Like most men, he was conscious of a gristly discomfort in the presence of a crying woman. Can I do anything? It's nothing, said flick again. She dabbed at her eyes and smiled a faint smile. Do cut me some of that ham. I'm simply famished. But look here. Flick attacked her meal compositely. He appeared to have woman's gift of rapid change from mood to mood. Is that coffee? She said. How splendid. She drank a mouthful. It warms one, doesn't it? She said. Makes one feel braver. I was only crying because I was a little scared. And, well, yes. Because I suddenly happened to think of Uncle Sinclair. Uncle Sinclair? Do you remember him? He was staying with your uncle the time you saved my life. He hadn't married Aunt Francie then, and he and I were together all the time. She choked. This coffee is hot, she said, in a small voice. I remember him, said Bill. Good Lord, isn't it funny how things come back to one? I liked him. I love him, said flick simply. There was a silence. Some more ham, said Bill. No, thanks. Flick stared into the fire. It's horrible to think of leaving him, she said. But what was I to do? Bill nodded sagely. I had to run away. Bill coughed. He wished to approach as delicately as possible the question of future plans. Talking of running away, he said, I was rather wondering, I mean, had you any particular idea in your mind? Only to get away. I see. You mean, said flick, had I decided what to do afterwards? It did cross my mind, admitted Bill. Flick pondered. Do you know? She said, at the time I don't think I had the slightest notion, but I'm beginning to see now. I think I had better write a letter, don't you? I did leave a sort of note pinned to my pen-cushion, but that just said I was going away because I wouldn't marry Roderick. You mustn't on any account marry that chap, said Bill, decidedly. He still had a slight headache. Oh, no, I'm quite determined about that. But I think I'd better write and say that I'll come back if they promise that I needn't marry him. What made you suddenly find you couldn't go through with it? Asked Bill. It was something that happened this afternoon. A man came rushing up to him when he was with me on the embankment, and Roderick was so frightened that he leaped into a cab and flew for his life, leaving me on the pavement. Good Lord, said Bill, that must have been Judson. He poured her out another cup of coffee. I'll tell you exactly what to do, he said. Write this letter and tell them that if they want you to come back on your conditions, to advertise in the personal column of the Daily Mail. Have you got any money? Oh yes, plenty, thanks. Then all you have to do is just to stick it out. Bill probably quit in under a week. I don't know, said Flick doubtfully. Uncle George and Aunt Francie are frightfully determined people. Uncle George is one of those little square jawed men who never give way an inch. He was the one who fell into the pond. She said, bubbling reminiscently. No, really? Said Bill, amused. He made a pretty good splash, didn't he? I've never heard anybody fall into a pond before. I only wish it had been daylight so that I could have seen it. If it had been daylight, Bill pointed out, he wouldn't have gone in. No, there's always something, isn't there? Flick agreed. She got up. Well, I certainly feel ever so much better. She said, I needed that food. I suppose I ought to be going now. Though I do hate leaving that fire. Have you ever noticed how cozy a room looks just when you have to leave it? Going, said Bill, what do you mean? Well, I've got to find a room, haven't I? Somewhere to sleep tonight. She looked ruefully at the celium, who was on the rug gnawing the remains of a chop. I'm afraid Bob's going to be rather a burden. Do you think a landlady would make a fuss about my having him? They usually own cats, and Bob gets so temperamental when he sees a cat. Bill spoke decidedly. It's absolutely impossible for you to go about trying to find a room at this time of night, quite out of the question. You must stop here, of course. I'll clear out and intercept Judson when he gets back and take him off somewhere. But where? Oh, I know dozens of places where we can go. It's awfully kind of you, said Flick, hesitating. Not a bit of it. We've got an old woman who comes in by the day and does the cooking and so on. When you hear her in the morning, pop your head out and shout at her to bring you breakfast. It will probably scare her into a fit. Oh no, she's a hearty old soul. Well, I'll be saying good night. Good night, Mr. West. Bill hesitated. I wish you wouldn't call me Mr. West. He said, surely when you were staying at my uncle's, you used to call me Bill. I believe I did. She stooped and padded Bob, who rolled an eye up at her, but did not discontinue his meal. And you called me Flick. Flick, exclaimed Bill. So I did. Isn't it funny how one forgets things? I'm rather good at remembering things, said Flick. Well, good night, Flick. Good night, Bill. I'll be round in the morning sometime, and then we can discuss what you're going to do. He paused at the door. By the way, he added, you've, uh, got. He looked at her suitcase and decided that she probably had. Good night, he said. See you tomorrow. Good night, Bill, and thank you a million times for being so wonderful. Not at all, said Bill modestly. Bill went downstairs and out into Prince of Wales Road. He began to regret the necessity of having to wait here to intercept Judson. It was a very open question whether Judson, having money in his pocket, would revisit the home many minutes in advance of the morning milk. And meanwhile it was infernally cold. To keep himself warm, Bill began presently to pace up and down the pavement outside the block of flats. And he was still doing this when they're slouched through the pool of light cast by a street lamp near the door. A wretched, shambling, travel-stained creature with dusty shoes and the beginnings of a cold in its head. It was a heart-rending sneeze, indeed, that first attracted Bill's attention. Judson! The figure stopped and leaned wearily against the railings. Hello, Bill, man. A groan blended with another sneeze. Oh, gosh, Bill, I've had one rotten time. What happened? Judson mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and spoke for a while of blisters on the soles of his feet. When you left me, he said, I sat in the cab for ages, wondering what the deuce you were up to. And then the cabbie shoved his head in and wanted to know what the game was. I said, stick around, George. We've got to wait for the gentleman, upon which the fellow got very nasty, insisted on having his fare. And I had to cough up, darn it, took all the money I had and left me, owing him three pence. He said it didn't matter about the three pence and drove off with a cheery good night. And I had to hoof it all the way home. All the way home, Bill, oh, man. Gosh, I don't suppose I've walked that far before in my life. I'm all in, besides having blisters. Well, thank goodness I've got here at last. Now I'm going to tumble into my little bed. No, you're not, said Bill. There's a girl in it, Jetson gaped. A girl? I'll explain as we go. You and I are going to sleep at the Germine Street Turkish Baths tonight. A girl in my bed? repeated Jetson blankly. Well, she may be in mine. Anyway, I've given her the flat for the night and we've got to go elsewhere. I'll tell you all about her on the way. Jetson sighed. I might have expected something like this. He said, resignedly, everything's on the fritz nowadays. I haven't had a bit of luck since I lost that lucky pig of mine. Never did find that pig. Oh, by the way, Bill. Now what? That cab. It cost me 13 shillings and something. Call it a pound, round numbers. I'd be glad to have that. I suppose you would. You're surely going to refund it, aren't you? Bill turned astounded. Refund it? He cried incredulously. Who, me? Why, it was your cab. The night closed in upon them. End of Chapter 5. Chapter 6 of Bill the Conqueror. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Bill the Conqueror by P. G. Woodhouse. Horace changes his mind. Mr. Cooley Paradine's pleasant domain at Westbury Long Island dozed in the April sunshine. It was the sort of day when any ordinary man would have been out in God's air. But Mr. Paradine, being a book collector, was spending the afternoon in his library. In front of him, as he sat at his desk, lay the most recent additions to his collection. The necessity of glancing at, dipping into, blowing spots of dust off, and fondling these was interfering very much with the task he had on hand at the moment. To it, the writing of a letter to his old friend, Sinclair Hammond, of Holly House, Wimbledon, England. At the point where we discover him, he had indeed got no further than the words, My Dear Hammond. He now assumed an expression of resolution, and dipping his pen in the ink pot began to tackle his task squarely. My Dear Hammond, thank you for your letter, which reached me a week ago, and many thanks for again inviting me to pay you a visit. I am glad to say that at last I am able to accept your very kind hospitality. Unless anything occurs to alter my plans, I propose to sail for England about the middle of next month. I'm looking forward with the greatest eagerness to seeing you again. I shall have one or two nice little things to show you. At the sail of the Mortimer collection, I was lucky enough to secure quite cheap, only $8,000. Browning's own copy of Pauline, Saunders and Ottley, 1833. Also, Browning's own copy of Paracelsus, E. Wilson, 1835, and of Strafford, Longman's, 1837. I am sure, too, you will appreciate another capture of mine, the autographed manuscript of Don Juan, Canto IX. This is entirely in Byron's handwriting, and is the only Canto lacking in Pierpont-Morgan's collection. I would not take $20,000 for it. I have also a few other good things, which I will show you when we meet. Since writing to you last, I have, you may be interested to hear, adopted a son, a splendid little fellow. A knock at the door interrupted his writing. Mr. Paradine looked up. Come in. The English language is so nicely adapted to the expression of delicate shades of meaning that it is perhaps slovenly to be satisfied with describing the noise that had broken in on Mr. Paradine's composition as a knock. The word bang more nearly fits it, and Mr. Paradine frowned with quick displeasure. He was not accustomed to having his hermit's cell battered upon in this fashion. His surprise when the opening door revealed Roberts the butler was extreme. If there is one class of the community that has reduced knocking on doors to a nice art, it is butlers. Roberts' discrete tap had been until this moment a thing that blended with rather than disturbed the thoughts. Only some great emotion, felt Mr. Paradine, could have caused him to slam the panel with such vehement impetuosity. And the next moment the sunlight falling on the butler's face as he moved forward showed that his suspicion had been correct. Roberts was foaming at the mouth. The expression foaming at the mouth is so often used to suggest a merely mental condition that it must be stated that in the present instance it is employed perfectly literally. A bubbly yellowish-white froth covered the lower part of the butler's face. And when he removed this with a vicious dab of his handkerchief, other bubbles immediately presented themselves. Had Roberts been a dog, Mr. Paradine would undoubtedly have been justified in shooting him on sight. As he was a man and a trusted employee at that, he simply stared, dumbly. Might I speak to you, sir? Said Roberts, thickly. What on earth? began Mr. Paradine. I would like to be informed, sir, if Master Horace is to be a permanency in this household. Mr. Paradine, hearing these words, felt like one who sees looming above the horizon a cloud no bigger than a man's hand. They stuck him as significant and sinister, for there was that in the butler's tone that suggested disapproval of that splendid little fellow, his adopted son. Mr. Paradine's mouth tightened. He was an obstinate man. Disapproval of Horace affected him personally. It implied criticism of his action in bringing him into the home. And he resented criticism of his actions, whether implied or spoken. He most certainly is, he replied, curtly. Then, said the butler, blowing bubbles, I must ask you to accept my resignation, sir. It speaks well for the benevolence of Mr. Paradine's domestic rule that this kind of announcement was an astonishing rarity in his life. Once in his house servants were as a rule only too glad to stay. He had had only two cooks in fourteen years. While, as for Roberts, that excellent man had joined up nearly eight summers ago and had looked until this moment as solid a fixture as the pillars that upheld the front porch. To see this devoted retainer blowing bubbles at him and talking of resigning his position afflicted Mr. Paradine with a horrible sense of being in the toils of some disordered dream. What was all he could find to say? The sadness of this parting after so long and happier union seemed to affect the butler, too. His manner became less severe and his voice took on a tone of pathos. I regret this, sir, deeply, he said. Nobody could have been more comfortable in a situation than I have been in your service, sir. But remain in the house if Master Hortes is to continue here. I cannot, and will not. The hasty and imperious side of Mr. Paradine's nature urged him to close this interview at once by withering the man with a few well-chosen words and sending him about his business. But curiosity was too strong for him. If he allowed Roberts to leave him without explaining the bubbles, he would worry himself into a premature grave. The thing would become one of those great historic mysteries which fret the souls of men through the ages. What's your objection to Master Horace? He forced himself to inquire. Roberts plied his handkerchief daintily for a few moments. My objection, sir, is both general and particular. What the devil do you mean by that? Demanded Mr. Paradine bewildered. If I might explain, sir, go ahead. Downstairs, sir, we do not like Master Horace's manner. One of the lower servants summed it up in a happy phrase not many days ago when he described a young gentleman as too darned fresh. We have so much affection, if I may take the liberty of saying so, for yourself, sir, that we have endeavored hitherto to bear this without complaint. But now things have gone too far. Mr. Paradine leaned forward in his chair. Imperiousness had vanished and curiosity occupied his mind to the exclusion of every other emotion. At last he felt Roberts was about to speak freely of the bubbles. A few days ago I refused to permit Master Horace to raid the Larda for food. Quite right, agreed Mr. Paradine, makes him fat. He appeared at the time to take this in a mutinous spirit. He called me one or two names, which, said Roberts, brooding coldly, I have not forgotten. But this afternoon, just before he went out for his walk with Mr. Bastable, he approached me with an apology so amiable and apparently sincere that I had no alternative but to accept it. He then offered me an attractive looking piece of candy, sir. This I also accepted. I have a sweet tooth. I did not immediately eat it, partly because I had only recently finished a hearty meal, and partly because Master Horace specifically urged me to save it up. But when I... Mr. Paradine was an oldish man, but he had been a boy once, a dazzling light shown on his darkness. Good God, he exclaimed. You don't mean there was soap in it? Exactly, sir, foamed the butler. There was a pregnant silence. For a moment Mr. Paradine was curiously enough, not so much shocked and horrified, as filled with a sort of subtle melancholy, the feeling which the ancient Romans used to call desiderium. It must be fifty years, he murmured wistfully, since I played that trick on anyone. I, said the butler with austerity, have never played it, nor had it played on me. It came as a complete surprise. Too bad, said Mr. Paradine, returning from the past and overcoming with some difficulty a desire to give way to a mirth which would obviously be ill-timed. Too bad, young rascal, I'll have a talk with him. Of course one can see the thing from his viewpoint. I fear I am unable to do so, sir, said Roberts stiffly. I mean boys will be boys. The butler expressed his disapproval of this too tolerant philosophy with a lift of the eyebrow so chilling that Mr. Paradine continued hastily. Don't think I am excusing him. Nothing of the kind. Can't have that sort of thing, certainly not. But, good gracious Roberts, you don't want to throw up an excellent situation simply because I am leaving with the greatest regret, sir. I assure you. Nonsense, nonsense. You aren't leaving at all. Of course you aren't. I couldn't get on for a day without you. It is very kind of you to say so, sir, said the butler, beginning to melt. I'll see the boy and make him apologize. Apologize humbly. That will make everything all right, eh? Well, sir, and you'll give up all this nonsense about leaving? Well, if you wish it, sir. Wish it? Of course I wish it. Good heavens, you've been with me eight years. You go back to the pantry and get yourself a good drink. You're very kind, sir. And listen, Roberts, it's only fair that I should pay some sort of indemnity, like a nation does when one of its subjects starts something in another country, eh? There'll be an extra ten dollars in the monthly envelope from now on. Leave me, indeed. I never heard such nonsense. The butler, who, like the month of March, had come in like a lion, went out like a lamb, leaving his employer chewing his pen. Mr. Paradine was worried. He hated to confess it, even in the privacy of self-communion, but he was disappointed in Horace. He had not yet actually adopted the boy with full formality of legal papers, but the fact that he had proclaimed him as his adopted son made it impossible for a man of his obstinacy to draw back, and it was beginning to come home to him that the whole business had been a blunder, a magnificent gesture, true, and one that had most satisfactorily stunned brother-in-law Jasper and the rest of those grasping sycophants, but nevertheless a blunder. Yes, he feared he had been too impulsive. Impulsiveness had always been his besetting fault from boyhood up. He was trying to divert his thoughts from this unpleasant matter by finishing his letter to Sinclair Hammond when they were jerked back to their original channel by the site through the open window of Horace himself, returning from his afternoon walk with Mr. Sherman Bastable, his tutor. He watched the couple cross the lawn and disappear round the corner of the house. Horace, he noted, had a weary and sullen mean, in marked contrast to Mr. Bastable's buoyant freshness. The tutor was a lean and enthusiastic young man just down from the university who preferred brisk walking to any other method of locomotion. Horace, to judge from his expression and his drooping slouch, did not share his views. It had frequently annoyed Mr. Paradine that his son, by adoption, though of a chunky and athletic build, seemed to like to spend his time lulling in easy chairs. This, he felt, was not the spirit that makes supermen and quick irritation gripped him once more. He was still brooding fretfully on the boy's shortcomings when there was a sudden rushing noise without and Mr. Bastable burst into the room. Mr. Paradine shouted the tutor in a high, impassioned tenor. I will not put up with it. Mr. Paradine was dumbfounded. Hitherto he had always found Sherman Bastable, an exceptionally civil and soft-spoken young fellow, but now the man was transformed. His tone was one that would have excited comment in the folksal if used by the second mate of a tramp steamer. His face was flushed and contorted, and as he spoke he thumped the desk violently. I've had enough of it! He bellowed. Mr. Paradine stared at him and staring became aware of something which in his first astonishment he had overlooked. He had felt vaguely, right from the start, that there was an oddness about the tutor's appearance and now he realized what had given him this impression. Sherman Bastable, in his employer's private and sacred library, was wearing his hat. The spectacle brought Mr. Paradine already simmering to the boiling point. It has got to stop, cried the tutor. Take off your hat, said Mr. Paradine. The words designed to bring the young man to himself in a rush of shamed embarrassment had the odd effect of amusing him. At least he laughed, but it was a hideous, hollow laugh that seemed wrenched from his very vitals. Oh, I like that! He cried, that's good. Take off my hat. Yes, that's rich. You're drunk, said Mr. Paradine, purpling. I'm not. You must be, you rush in here with your hat on. Yes, said Mr. Bastable bitterly, I do. And perhaps you'd like to know why, because I can't get the thing off without skinning my forehead. That little brute of a boy has gone and rubbed glue all around the inside band and now it's melted. And I want to tell you, Mr. Paradine, the things Mr. Bastable wanted to and did tell his employer were so numerous and couched in language so harsh and unguarded that one is forced to omit them. His final utterance, spoken a brief instant before he slammed the door, is the only one that need be recorded. I'm through, said Mr. Bastable. You can accept my resignation. I wouldn't stay here another day if you paid me a million dollars. The bang of the door died away, leaving a quivering silence. Mr. Paradine stood for a moment, plunged in thought. Then, going to a closet, he took out a long, slim cane and having swished this musically through the air once or twice, strode rapidly from the room. Out in the garden, meanwhile, in the shade of a large locust tree that stood near a handsome shrubbery of rhododendrons, the cause of all these upheavals in the home was relaxing after the fatigues of his afternoon walk. His young body at ease in a deck chair and his feet restfully supported by a small rustic table. The boy Horace lay with closed eyes, restoring his tissues. Beside him on the turf, a glass, empty, except for a fragment of ice, spoke pleasantly of past lemonade, and a close observer might have detected cake-crumbs on the lad's waistcoat. Everything was Jake with Horace. The warm sunshine invited slumber and it was not immediately that the soft whistling from the shrubbery succeeded in penetrating to his consciousness. For some time the boy had attributed the sound to one of the birds that ranged the garden, but presently it became so persistent as to interfere with sleep. He opened his eyes and gazed drowsily in the direction from which it seemed to proceed. Having done this, he became aware of a face peering out him out of the rhododendrons. One uses the word face in a loose sense. What met Horace's eyes was a mere conjuries of features, apparently carelessly assembled by an inexpert hand, few of them making any pretense of matching one another. The nose appeared to have been designed for a far smaller man, whereas the chin, which jutted out like the cowcatcher of a train, would have caught the eye if attached to the body of a giant. The forehead, a narrow strip of territory separating the eyebrows from the fringe, was flanked by enormous ears that stood out at a majestic right angle. To see this strange facial hash protruding from a rhododendron bush might have startled many people. Horace bore the spectacle with calm, almost with indifference. He yawned. Ah, hello, Joe. He said, it's you, is it? Yes, it's me, replied the other in a voice of marked surliness. I've come to find out what you're doing, and I find you doing what I might have expected I'd find you doing, doing nothing. I'm concentrating, said Horace casually. Joe the dip, for the visitor was none other, looked up and down the quiet garden and satisfied that it was empty, emerged cautiously from his bush. Now that the whole of him had become visible, his social status was even more obvious than before. A criminal, evidently, and belonging one would have said to the executive rather than the organizing branch of his particular gang, if you wanted a man to scheme out some subtle confidence game, you would pass over, Joe. But if, on the other hand, the task on the program involved the sandbagging of somebody down a dark alley, then you would beckon to Joe with an immediate eureka. In build, he was a solid man of medium height, with thick and stooping shoulders. His feet were large and flat. Concentrate, eh? He observed bitterly. That's about the best thing you do, ain't it? See here, kid. I've made a long trip out to this joint to get next to yous. And what I want to know is how about it? The boss is getting worried. Yeah, said Horace. We're all getting worried. You got it soft, ain't you? Sitting pretty in this well home, living off the fat of the land. I don't eat fat. It's about all you don't eat. I know yous, lazy. That's what you are. If I'd been here instead of you, I'd have got action long ago. You would, eh? Yes, I would. What's keeping yous? What's the snag? Horace settled down more deeply into his deck chair, and I'd his interrogator calmly. I've been thinkin', he said. You've got no time for that sort of thing. Said Joe, the dip, reprovingly. We got to get a move on. Thinkin', proceeded Horace, whether we really want to rob Mr. Paradine. What, gasped Joe. Thinkin', what? I've been goin' to the movie house down in the village, and it seems to me it don't pay to be a crook. No, sir, every crook that reforms always turns up in a dress suit in the last reel. Joe licked his lips feverishly. He seemed to be feeling that a stricter censorship was needed for the motion picture industry. There was one I saw last night, continued Horace dreamily, where an ugly, bad-tempered crook puts a kid up to stealing from an old gentleman. Kind of coincidence, wasn't it? Yeah. Well, the fellow he's robbin' catches him and says that he's a big crook himself, and he wants the kid to go to some town and get the reputation of being the honestest young man in the place, and then he'll come and spring something really big, and the kid goes, and he does, and the big crook comes and says, now's the time, and the kid says, no, I'm honest, and I like it, because I'm president of the bank and everything, and the big crook says, thank God I only did the whole thing to try and make you an honest man. What do you think of that? I think it's terrible, said Joe with emotion. He stared at his young friend, breathing heavily. Well, if you really wanna know, said Horace, chuckling unfeelingly, I was only kidding when I said that was why I didn't want to rob old Peridine. Joe heaved a sigh of relief. Oh, if you was only kidding, the real reason why I'm not going to, hey, cried Joe, starting violently. I say the real reason why I'm not going to is what you said yourself just now. You said I was sitting pretty, and so I am. Gee, I should be a fine chump, I should, doing anything that'd make me have to duck out of a swell joint like this. This is my dish. You've got me adopted by this rich millionaire, and I'm going to stay adopted. Why, you poor simp, you've got about as much chance of having me sneak those books for you as, well, I don't know what. I'm here, and I'm gonna stay here. And if you want those books, you'll come and break in and pinch him for yourself, as far as I'm concerned, the thing's cold. Joe the Dip, as has been pointed out, was not a man of swift intelligence. The problems created by this appalling treachery on the part of his young ally were altogether too much for him. This situation made him dizzy. He was still wondering how this news was to be broken to the boss, and what the boss? A man who disliked having his schemes go wrong would say about it when the sight of a figure coming out of the house drove him quickly back into the shelter of the Rhododendrons. He crouched there an unhappy man. The figure that had interrupted Joe the Dip's train of thought was that of Mr. Paradine with Cain complete. The walk down the stairs and out into the garden had served only to intensify the wrath of that injured man. His eyes, as he stalked across the lawn, were gleaming fiercely and his mouth was tightly clamped. Mr. Paradine was on the warpath. Horace, snuggling contentedly in his deck chair, watched his approach without qualms. No sense of coming peril disturbed his peace. The conscience of youth is not tender, and Horace's spoke no word of warning now. Hello, Pop! he said, amably. Mr. Paradine was a man of action. I'll teach you to feed my butler soap and put glue in your tutor's hat, he said, and with this brief preamble embarked forthwith on the lesson. It was not a simple task to try to inject sweetness and light into a boy of Horace's hard-boiled temperament, but what one man armed with a springy-wangy could do, Mr. Paradine did. A stranger, passing Cooley Paradine with a casual glance in the street, might have thought his physique too slight for any violent muscular effort. Horace, after the first few moments, could have corrected this impression, but then he was getting first-hand information. There! said Mr. Paradine at length, desisting. It shows how diametrically opposed two person's views can be on any given point that Horace's new father was dissatisfied with his work. He chafed at the inroads made by advancing years on a once wiry frame, and considered that heaviness of arm and scantiness of breath had caused him to stop much too soon. Horace was not seeing eye to eye with him in this matter. Whatever his views on Mr. Paradine's lesson in deportment, and he had many, he certainly did not think that there had not been enough of it. There! said Mr. Paradine again, breathing heavily, and turning on his heel he stalked back to the house. Not until he was out of sight did Joe the Dipp venture to leave the shelter of the Rhododendrons, but when it was plain that the intruder had definitely withdrawn, he came out of his retirement, his face wreathed with unwanted smiles. His young friend's yelps of anguish had been music to the ears of Joe the Dipp. He had only regretted that the social conveyances should have rendered it inadvisable for him to emerge and lend a hand in the good work. He surveyed Horace contentedly. Laugh that off! Observed Joe with quiet relish. Serves you right for being a little double-crosser! Horace gritted his teeth. He was still somewhat stunned by the dreadful unexpectedness of the recent massacre. Deceived by the benevolent exterior of Mr. Paradine, he had not suspected the existence of these hidden fires beneath the surface. Who's a double-crosser? He demanded warmly. You are, said Joe the Dipp, and say, listen, if it had been me behind that stick, you wouldn't have got off with a few taps like that. If there's one bozo diswoiled I got no use for. It's a little squite that double-crosses his pals. Horace glared. This censure stung him. For now he felt that it was unjust. In the last few minutes his views on existence in the Paradine home had undergone a striking alteration. He had mistaken it, after a too superficial inspection, for an earthly paradise. He now realized that there were attached to it drawbacks of the most pronounced kind. Drabble-cross nothing. He exclaimed, heatedly, you can go back and tell the boss that I'll have those books he's so crazy about if I have to dig him out with a chisel. Leave it to me. I'm in this game now to get action. Atta boy, cried Joe the Dipp enthusiastically. That's the way I like to hear you stalk. End of chapter six.