 CHAPTER XIII Remarkable as the apparition of Mr. Bennett appeared to his daughter. The explanation of his presence at that moment in the office of Marlowe Thorpe, Prescott, Winslow and Appleby was simple. He had woken early that morning, and glancing at his watch on the dressing table, he had suddenly become aware of something bright and yellow beside it, and had paws transfixed like Robinson Crusoe staring at the footprint in the sand. If he had not been in England, he would have said it was a patch of sunshine. Hardly daring to hope, he pulled up the shades and looked out on the garden. It was a superb morning. It was as if some giant hand had uncorked a great bottle full of the distilled scent of grass, trees, flowers and hay. Mr. Bennett sniffed luxuriously. Gone was the gloom of the past days swept away in a great exhilaration. Breakfast had deepened his content. Henry Mortimer, softened by the same balmy influence, had been perfectly charming. All their little differences had melted away in the genial warmth. And then suddenly Mr. Bennett remembered that he had sent Billy up to London to enlist the aid of the law against his old friend, and remorse gripped him. Half an hour later he was in the train on his way to London to intercept her, and cancel her mission. He had arrived breathless at Sir Malaby's office, and the first thing he had seen was his daughter in the arms of a young man who was a total stranger to him. The shock took away his breath again just as it was coming back. He advanced shakily into the room, and supported himself with one hand on the desk. While with the other he plied the handkerchief on his super-heated face. Billy was the first to speak. My father, she said, I didn't expect you. As an explanation of her behaviour, this might no doubt have been considered sufficient. But as an excuse for it, Mr. Bennett thought it inadequate. He tried to convey a fatherly reproof by puffing like a seal after a long dive in such a fish. This is Sam, preceded Billy. Sam Marlowe. Mr. Bennett became aware that the young man was moving towards him with an outstretched hand. It took a lot to disconcert Sam, and he was the calmest person present. He gave evidence of this in a neat speech. He did not, in so many words, congratulate Mr. Bennett on the peace of luck which had befallen him, but he tried to make him understand by his manner, that he was distinctly to be envied, as the prospective father-in-law of such a one as himself. Mr. Bennett stared in a frozen sort of way at the hand. He had placed Sam by now. He knew that Sam Malaby had a son. This presumably was he, but the discovery did not diminish his indignation. I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Bennett, said Sam. You could not have come at a more fortunate moment. You see, if yourself are things are, there is no need for a long explanation. You came to find a daughter, Mr. Bennett, and you have found a son. And he would like to see the man, thought Sam, who could have put it more cleverly and pleasantly and tactfully than that. What are you talking about? said Mr. Bennett, recovering breath. I have not got a son. I will be a son to you. I will be the prop of your declining years. What a devil do you mean by declining years? demanded Mr. Bennett with asperity. He means when they do decline, Father dear, said Billy. Of course, of course, said Sam, when they do decline, not till then. Of course, I would not dream of it. But once they do decline, count on me. I should like to say for my part, he went on handsomely, what an honour, I think, to become the son-in-law of a man like Mr. Bennett. Bennett of New York, he added spaciously. Not so much because he knew what he meant, for he would have been the first to admit that he did not, but because it sounded well. Oh! said Mr. Bennett, you do, do you? Mr. Bennett sat down. He put away his handkerchief, which had certainly earned a rest. Then he fastened a baleful stare upon his newly discovered son. It was not the sort of look a proud and happy father-in-law to be ought to have directed at a prospective relative. It was not, as a matter of fact, the sort of look which anyone ought to have directed at anybody, except possibly an exceptionally prudish judge, at a criminal in the dark, convicted of a more than usually atrocious murder. Billy, not being in the actual line of fire, only caught the tail-end of it. But it was enough to create a misgiving. Oh! father, you aren't angry. Angry? You can't be angry. Why can't I be angry? demanded Mr. Bennett, with a sense of injury which comes to self-willed men when their whims are thwarted. Why, the devil, shouldn't I be angry? I am angry. I come here to find you like this, and you seem to expect me to throw my hat in the air and give three rousing cheers. Of course I'm angry. You are engaged to be married to an excellent young man of the highest character, one of the finest young men I have ever seen. Oh! well, said Sam, straightening his time modestly. Oh! of course, if you say so. It's awfully good of you. But father, cried Billy, I never really loved Bream. I like him very much, but I can never love him. I only got engaged to him because you were anxious for it, and because—because I had quarrelled with the man I really loved. I don't want to marry Bream. Naturally, said Sam. Naturally, quite out of the question. In a few days we'll all be roaring with laughter at the very idea. Mr. Bennet scorched him, with a look compared with which his earlier effort had been a loving glance. Well, Hermina, he said, go into the outer office. But, father, you don't understand. You don't realise that Sam has just saved my life. Saved your life? What do you mean? There was a lunatic in here with a pistol, and Sam saved me. It was nothing, said Sam modestly. Nothing. Go into the outer office. Thundered Mr. Bennet, quite unmoved by this story. Very well, said Billy. I shall always love you, Sam, she said, pausing mutinously at the door. I shall always love you, said Sam. Nobody can keep us apart. Oh, they're wasting their time trying, said Sam. You're the most wonderful man in the world. There never was a girl like you. Get out! Bellowed Mr. Bennet, whose equanimity this love scene, which I think beautiful, was jarring profoundly. Now, sir! he said to Sam, as the door closed. Yes, let's talk it ever calmly, said Sam. I will not talk it ever calmly. Oh, come, you can do it, if you try. Bream Mortimer is the son of Henry Mortimer. I know, said Sam, and while it's no doubt unfair to hold that against him, it's a point you can't afford to ignore. Henry Mortimer. You and I have Henry Mortimer's number. We know what Henry Mortimer is like. A man who spends his time thinking up ways of annoying you. You can't seriously want to have the Mortimer family linked to you by marriage. Henry Mortimer is my oldest friend. That makes it all the worse. Fancy a man who calls himself your friend treating you like that. The misunderstanding to which you allude has been completely smoothed over. My relations with Mr. Mortimer are thoroughly cordial. Well, have it your own way. Personally, I wouldn't trust a man like that, and as for letting my daughter marry his son. I have decided once and for all, if you'll take my advice, you'll break the thing off. I will not take your advice. I wouldn't expect to charge you for it, explained Sam reassuringly. I'd give it to you as a friend, not as a lawyer. Sex and napence to others, free to you. Will you understand that my daughter is going to marry Breem Mortimer? What are you giggling about? Sound so silly, the idea of anyone marrying Breem Mortimer. I mean, let me tell you, he is a thoroughly estimable young man. And there you put the whole thing in a nutshell. Your daughter is a girl of spirit. She would hate to be tied for life to an estimable young man. She will do as I tell her, Sam regarded him sternly. Have you no regard for her happiness? I am the best judge of what is best for her. If you ask me, said Sam candidly, I think you're a rotten judge. I did not come here to be insulted. I like that. You've been insulting me ever since you arrived. What right have you to say that I'm not fit to marry your daughter? I did not say that. You've implied it. And you've been looking at me as if I were a leper or something the pure food committee has condemned. Why, that's what I ask you, said Sam, warming up. This, he fancied, was the way Wigery would have tackled a troublesome client. Why answer me that? I, Sam, wrapped sharply on the desk. Be careful, sir, be careful. He knew that this was what lawyers always said. Of course, there is a difference in position between a miscreant whom you suspect of an attempted perjury, and the father of the girl you love, whose consent to the match you wish to obtain. But Sam was in no mood for these nice distinctions. He only knew that lawyers told people to be very careful. So he told Mr. Bennett to be very careful. What do you mean, be very careful? said Mr. Bennett. Dashed if I know, said Sam frankly. Questions struck him as a mean attack. He wanted how Wigery would have met it. Probably by smiling quietly and polishing his spectacles. Sam had no spectacles. He endeavoured, however, to smile quietly. Don't laugh at me, roared Mr. Bennett. I'm not laughing at you. You are. I'm not. Well, don't then, said Mr. Bennett. He glowered at his young companion. I don't know why I'm wasting my time talking to you. The position is clear to the meanest intelligence. You cannot have any difficulty in understanding it. I have no objection to you personally. Come, this is better, said Sam. I don't know you well enough to have any objection to you or any opinion of you at all. This is the first time I have ever met you in my life. Mark you, said Sam. I think I'm one of those fellows who grow on people. As far as I am concerned, you simply do not exist. You may be the noblest character in London. Or you may be wanted by the police. I don't know. And I don't care. It doesn't matter to me. You mean nothing in my life. I don't know you. You must persevere, said Sam. You must buckle to and get to know me. Don't give the thing up in this half-hearted way. Everything has to have a beginning. Stick to it. In a week or two, you'll find yourself knowing me quite well. I don't want to know you. You say that now, but wait. Thank goodness I have not got to, exploded Mr. Bennett, ceasing to be calm and reasonable, with a suddenness which affected Sam, much as though half a pound of gunpowder had been touched off under his chair. For the little I've seen of you has been quite enough. Kindly understand that my daughter is engaged to be married to another man, and that I do not wish to see or hear anything of you again. I shall try to forget your very existence, and I shall try to see to it that Wilhelm Meiner does the same. You're an impudent scoundrel, sir. An impudent scoundrel. I don't like you. I don't wish to see you again. If you were the last man in the world, I wouldn't allow my daughter to marry you. If that is quite clear, I will wish you good morning. Mr. Bennett thundered out of the room, and Sam, temporarily stunned by the outburst, remained where he was, gaping. A few minutes later life began to return to his palsy limbs. It occurred to him that Mr. Bennett had forgotten to kiss him good-bye, and he went into the outer office to tell him so. But the outer office was empty. Sam stood for a moment in thought, then returned to the inner office, and picking up a timetable began to look out trains to the village of Windelhurst in Hampshire, the newest station to his aunt Adeline's charming old-world house, Windels. 3. Men are DEMADE by Pidgey Woodhouse, Chapter 14 As I read over the last few chapters of this narrative, I see that I have been giving the reader a rather too jumpy time. To almost a painful degree I have excited his pity and terror. And, though that is what Aristotle tells one ought to do, I feel that a little respite would not be out of order. The reader can stand having his emotions turned up to a certain point, but after that he wants to take it easy. It is with pleasure, therefore, that I turn now to depict a quiet, peaceful scene in domestic life. They won't last long, dream in its perhaps by a stopwatch, but that's not my fault. My task is to record facts as they happened. The morning sunlight fell pleasantly on the garden of Windels, turning it into the green and amber paradise which nature had intended it to be. A number of the local birds sang melodiously in the undergrowth at the end of the lawn, while others, more energetic, hopped about the grass in quest of worms. Bees, mercifully ignorant that after they had worked themselves to the bone gathering honey, the proceeds of their labour would be collared and consumed by idle humans, buzzed industriously to and fro, and dived head foremost into flowers. Winged insects danced sarabans in the sunshine, and, in a deck chair, under the cedar tree, Billy Bennett, with a sketching block on her knee, was engaged in drawing a picture of the ruined castle. Beside her, curled up in a ball, lay her pecanese dog Pinkyboodles. Beside Pinkyboodles slept Smith the Bulldog. In the distant stable-yard, unseen but audible, a boy in shirt sleeves was washing the car, and seeing as much as treacherous memory would permit of a popular sentimental ballad. You may think that was all. You may suppose that nothing could be added to deepen the atmosphere of peace and content. Not so. At this moment, Mr. Bennett emerged from the French windows of the drawing-room, clad in white flannels and buckskin shoes, supplying just the finishing touch that was needed. Mr. Bennett crossed the lawn and sat down beside his daughter. Smith the Bulldog, raising a sleepy head, breathed heavily, but Mr. Bennett did not quail. Of late, relations of distant but solid friendship had come to exist between them. Sceptical at first, Mr. Bennett had at length allowed himself to be persuaded of the mildness of the animal's nature and the essential purity of his motives, and now it was only when they encountered each other unexpectedly round sharp corners that he ever betrayed the slightest alarm. So now, while Smith slept on the grass, Mr. Bennett reclined in the chair. It was the newest thing modern civilisation had seen to the lion lying down with the lamb. Sketching, said Mr. Bennett, yes, said Billy, for there were no secrets between this girl and her father. At least not many. She occasionally omitted to tell him some such trifle, as that she had met Samuel Marlowe on the previous morning in a leafy lane, and intended to meet him again this afternoon, but apart from that, her mind was an open book. That's a great morning, said Mr. Bennett. So peaceful, said Billy. The eggs you get in the country in England, said Mr. Bennett, suddenly striking a lyrical note, are extraordinary. I had three for breakfast this morning which defied competition. Simply defied competition. They were large and brown and fresh as new-mown hay. He mused for a while in a sort of ecstasy. And the hams, he went on, the ham I had for breakfast was what I call ham. I don't know when I've had ham like that. I suppose it's something they feed the pigs, he concluded, in soft meditation. And he gave a little sigh. Life was very beautiful. Silence fell, broken only by the snoring of Smith. Billy was thinking of Sam, and of what Sam had said to her in the lane yesterday, of his clean-cut face, and the look in his eyes, so vastly superior to any look that ever came into the eyes of Breem Mortimer. She was telling herself that our relations with Sam were an iddle. For, being young and romantic, she enjoyed this freshet of surreptitious meetings, which had come to enliven the stream of her life. It was pleasant to go warily into deep lanes, where forbidden love lurked. She cast a swift side-glance at her father, the unconscious ogre in her fairy story. What would he say if he knew? But Mr. Bennett did not know, and consequently continued to meditate peacefully, on ham. They had sat like this for perhaps a minute, two happy mortals lulled by the gentle beauty of the day, when, from the window of the drawing-room, there stepped out a white-capped maid. And one may just as well say at once, and have done with it, that this is the point where the quiet, peaceful scene in domestic life terminates with a jerk, and pity and terror resume work at the old stand. The maid, her name, not that it matters, was Susan, and she was engaged to be married, though the point is of no importance, to the second assistant at Green's grocery stores in Windelhurst. Approached Mr. Bennett. Please, sir, a gentleman to see you. Eh? So Mr. Bennett torn from a dream of large, pink slices, edged with red-crummed fat. Eh? A gentleman to see you, sir, in the drawing-room. He says you're expecting him. Of course, yes, to be sure. Mr. Bennett heaved himself out of the deck-chair. Beyond the French windows he could see an indistinct form in a grey suit. And remembered that this was the morning on which some alibi-malo's clerk, who was taking those Schultz and Bowen papers for him to America, had written that he would call. Today was Friday. No doubt the man was sailing from Southampton to-morrow. He crossed the lawn, entered the drawing-room, and found Mr. Gino Peters, with an expression on his ill-favoured face, which looked like one of consternation of uneasiness, even of alarm. Morning, Mr. Peters, said Bennett. Very good of you to run down. Take a seat. I'll just go through a few notes I've made about the matter. Mr. Bennett exclaimed Gino Peters. May I speak? What do you mean? Eh? What? Something to say? What is it? Mr. Peters cleared his throat awkwardly. He was feeling embarrassed at the unpleasantness of the duty which he had to perform. But it was a duty. And he did not intend to shrink from performing it. Ever since, gazing appreciatively through the drawing-room windows at the charming scene outside, he had caught sight of the unforgettable form of Billy seated in her chair with the sketching-block on her knee, he had realised that he could not go away in silence, leaving Mr. Bennett ignorant of what he was up against. When almost inclined to fancy that there must have been a curse of some kind on this house of windows, certainly everybody who entered it seemed to leave his peace of mind behind him. Gino Peters had been feeling notably happy during his journey in the train from London, and the subsequent walk from the station the splendour of the morning had soothed his nerves. And the faint wind that blew in shore from the sea spoke to him hearteningly of adventure and romance. There was a jar of potpourri on the drawing-room table, and he had derived considerable pleasure from sniffing at it. In short, Gino Peters was in the pink, without a care in the world, until he had looked out of the window and seen Billy. Mr. Bennett, he said, I don't want to do anybody any harm, but if you know all about it, and she suits you well and good, but I think it's my duty to inform you that your stenographer is not quite right in the head. I don't say she's dangerous, but she isn't compost. She decidedly is not compost, Mr. Bennett. Mr. Bennett stared at his well-wisher, dumbly, for a moment, and thought crossed his mind that if ever there was a case of the pot calling the kettle black, this was it. His opinion of Gino Peters' sanity went down to zero. What are you talking about, my stenographer? What stenographer? It occurred to Mr. Peters that a man of the other's wealth and business connections might well have a troupe of these useful females. He particularised. I mean, the young lady out in the garden there, to whom you were dictating just now, the young lady with the writing pad on her knee. What? What? Mr. Bennett spluttered. Do you know who that is? he exclaimed. Oh yes indeed, said Gino Peters. I have only met her once when she came into our office to see Mr. Samuel, but her personality and appearance stamped themselves so forcibly on my mind that I know I am not mistaken. I am sure it's my duty to tell you exactly what happened when I was left alone with her in the office. We had hardly exchanged a dozen words, Mr. Bennett, when, he urged no Peters, modest to the core, turned vividly pink, when she told me, she told me I was the only man she loved. Mr. Bennett, I had allowed cry. Sweet spirits of nighter! Mr. Peters could make nothing of this exclamation. And he was deterred from seeking light, by the sudden action of his host, who, bounding from his seat with a vivacity of which one could not have believed him capable, charged to the French window, and emitted a bellow. Wilhelmina! Billy looked up from her sketching book with a start. It seemed to her that there was a note of anguish, of panic in that voice. What her father could have found in the drawing-room to be frightened at, she did not know. But she dropped her block and hurried to his assistance. What is it, father? Mr. Bennett had retired within the room when she arrived, and, going enough to him, she perceived at once what had caused his alarm. There before her, looking more sinister than ever, stood the lunatic Peters. And there was an ominous bulge in his right-coat pocket, which betrayed the presence of the revolver. What Jeno Peters was, as a matter of fact carrying in his right-coat pocket, was a bag of mixed chocolates, which she had purchased in Windelhurst. But Billy's eyes, though bright, had no X-ray quality. Her simple creed was that if Jeno Peters bulged at any point, that bulge must be caused by a pistol. She screamed, and backed against the wall. Her whole acquaintance with Jeno Peters had been on constant backing against walls. Don't shoot! she cried, as Mr. Peters absentmindedly dipped his hand into the pocket of his coat. Oh, please, don't shoot! What the juice do you mean? said Mr. Bennett irritably. He hated to have people gibbering around him in the morning. Well, Elmina, this man says you told him you loved him. Yes, I did, and I do. Really, really, Mr. Peters, I do. Sovereign cats! Mr. Bennett clutched at the back of a chair. But you only met him once? he added, almost pleadingly. You don't understand, Father dear? said Billy desperately. I'll explain the whole thing later, when— Father! ejaculated Jeno Peters feebly. Did you say Father? Of course I said Father. This is my daughter, Mr. Peters. My daughter? I mean, your daughter? Ah, are you sure? Of course I'm sure. Do you think I don't know my own daughter? But she called me Mr. Peters. Well, that's your name, isn't it? But if she— if this young lady is your daughter, how did she know my name? The point seemed to strike Mr. Bennett. He turned to Billy. That's true. Tell me, will Elmina, when did you and Mr. Peters meet? Why, in some other bimalos office the morning you came there, and found me when I was talking to Sam. Mr. Peters uttered a subdued, gargling sound. He was finding this scene oppressive, to a not very robust intellect. He, Mr. Samuel, told me your name, Miss Millican, he said, Dolly. Billy stared at him. Mr. Marlowe told you my name was Miss Millican, she repeated. He told me that you were the sister of the Miss Millican who acts as stenographer for the gov. For, Sir Malaby, he sent me in to show you my revolver, because he said you were interested and wanted to see it. Billy uttered an exclamation, so did Mr. Bennett, who hated mysteries. What revolver? Which revolver? What's all this about a revolver? Have you a revolver? Why, yes, Mr. Bennett, it's packed now in my trunk, but I usually carry it about with me everywhere, in order to take a little practice, at the Rupert Street range. I bought it when Sir Malaby told me he was setting me to America, because I thought I ought to be prepared, because of the underworld, you know. A cold gleam had come into Billy's eyes. A face was pale and hard. If Sam Marlowe, at that moment caroling blithely in his bedroom at the Blue Boar in Windelhurst, washing his hands preparatory to descending to the coffee-room for a bit of cold lunch, could have seen her, the song would have frozen on his lips. Which one might mention, as showing that there is always a bright side, would have been much appreciated by the travelling gentleman in the adjoining room, who had had a wild night with some other travelling gentleman, and was then, nursing a rather severe headache, separated from Sam's penetrating baritone, only by the thickness of a wooden wall. Billy knew all. And terrible though the fact is, as an indictment of the male sex, when a woman knows all, there is invariably trouble ahead for some man. There was trouble ahead for Sam Marlowe. Billy, now in possession of the facts, had examined them, and come to the conclusion that Sam had played a practical joke on her, and she was a girl who strongly disapproved of practical humour at her expense. That morning I met you at Sir Malaby's office, Mr Peters, she said in a frosty voice. Mr Marlowe had just finished telling me a long and convincing story, to the effect that you were madly in love with a Miss Millican, who had jilted you, and that this had driven you off your head, and that you spent your time going about with a pistol, trying to shoot every red-haired woman you saw, because you thought they were Miss Millican. Naturally, when you came in and called me Miss Millican, and brandished a revolver, I was very frightened. I thought it would be useless to tell you that I wasn't Miss Millican, so I tried to persuade you that I was, and hadn't jilted you after all. Good gracious! said Mr Peters, vastly relieved, and yet, for always there is bitter mixed with the sweet, a shade disappointed. Then, uh, you don't love me after all? No, said Billy. I'm engaged to bring Mortimer, and I love him and nobody else in the world. The last portion of her observation was intended for the consumption of Mr Bennett, rather than that of Mr Peters. And he consumed it joyfully. He folded Billy in his ample embrace. I always thought you had a grain of sense hidden away somewhere. He said, paying her a striking tribute. I hope now that we've heard the last of all this foolishness about that young hound Marlowe. You certainly have. I don't want to ever see him again. I hate him. You couldn't do better, my dear, said Mr Bennett approvingly. And now run away. Mr Peters and I have some business to discuss. A quarter of an hour later, Webster, the valet, sunning himself in the stable-yard, was aware of the daughter of his employer, approaching him. Webster, said Billy, who was still pale. Her face was still hard, and her eyes still gleamed coldly. Miss? said Webster politely, throwing away the cigarette with which he had been refreshing himself. Will you do something for me? I should be more than delighted, Miss. Billy whisked into view an envelope which had been concealed in the recesses of her dress. Do you know the country about here well, Webster? Within a certain radius, not unintimately, Miss, I have been for several enjoyable rambles since the fine weather set in. Do you know the place where there is a road leading to Havent, and another to Cosham? It's about a mile down. I know the spot well, Miss. Well, straight in front of you, when you get to the signpost, there is a little lane. I know it, Miss, said Webster, a delightfully romantic spot. What were the overhanging trees, the wealth of blackberry bushes, the varied wildflowers? Yes, never mind about the wildflowers now. I want you, after lunch, to take this note to a gentleman. You will find sitting on the gate at the bottom of the lane. Sitting on the gate, Miss? Yes, Miss. While leaning against it, you can't mistake him. He is rather tall, and—oh, well, there isn't likely to be anybody else there, so you can't make a mistake. Give him this, will you? Certainly, Miss. Any message? Any what? Any verbal message, Miss? Oh, certainly not. You won't forget, will you, Webster? On no account, whatever, Miss. Shall I wait for an answer? There won't be an answer, said Billy, setting her teeth for an instant. Oh, Webster, Miss, can I rely on you to say nothing to anybody? Most undoubtedly, Miss, most undoubtedly. Does anybody know anything about a fellow named S. Marlowe? In quite Webster entering the kitchen. Don't all speak at once. S. Marlowe ever heard of him? He paused for a reply. But nobody had any information to impart. Because there's something joy well up. How Miss B is sending me with notes for him at the bottom of the lanes. And her engaged to Mr. Mortimer, said the scullerymaid, shocked. The way they go on! Chronic, said the scullerymaid. Don't you go getting alarmed? And don't you, I did Webster, go shoving your ear where your social superiors are talking. I've had to speak to you about that before. My remarks were addressed to Mrs. Withers here. He indicated to Cook with a respectful gesture. Yes, here's the note, Mrs. Withers. Of course, if you had a steamy kettle handy, in about half a moment we could. But no, perhaps it's wiser not to risk it. And come to that, I don't need to unstick the envelope to know what's inside here. It's the raspberry, ma'am. Or I've lost all my power to read the human female countenance. Very cold, and proud looking she was. I don't know who this S. Marlowe is, but I do know one thing. In this hand I hold the instrument that's going to give it to him in the neck. Proper. Right in the neck, or my name isn't Montague Webster. Well, said Mrs. Withers, comfortably, pausing for a moment from her labours. Think of that. The way I look at it, said Webster, is that there's been some sort of understanding between Armist B and this S. Marlowe. And she's thought better of it, and decided to stick to the man of her parents' choice. She's chosen wealth, and made up her mind, to hand the humble suit of the mitten. There was a rather similar situation in Cupid or Mammon, the nose-gain novelette that I was reading in the train coming down here. Only that ended different. For my part, I'd been better pleased if Armist B would let the cash go, and obey the dictator of her own heart. But these modern girls are all alike. All out for the stuff they are. Oh, well, it's none of my affair, said Webster, stifling and not unmanly sigh. For beneath that immaculate shirt-front there beat a warm heart. Montague Webster was a sentimentalist. End of Chapter 14. Recording by Tim Bulkeley of BigBible.org Chapter 15 of Three Men and the Made 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 Tim Bulkeley of BigBible.org Three Men and the Made by Pidgey Woodhouse, Chapter 15. At half past two that afternoon, full of optimism and cold beef, gaily unconscious that Webster, with measured strides, was approaching ever nearer, with the note that would give it him in the neck proper. Samuel Marlowe dangled his feet from the top bar of the gate at the end of the lane, and smoked contentedly, as he waited for Billy to make her appearance. He had had an excellent lunch, his pipe was drawing well, and all nature smiled. The breeze from the sea across the meadows tickled pleasantly on the back of his head, and sang a soothing song in the long grass, and ragged robins at his feet. He was looking forward with a rosy eight glow of anticipation, to the moment when the white flutter of Billy's dress would break the green of the foreground. How eagerly he would jump from the gate, how lovingly he would, the elegant figure of Webster interrupted his reverie. Sam had never seen Webster before, and it was with no pleasure that he saw him now. He had come to regard this lane as his own property, and he resented trespasses. He tucked his legs under him and scowled at Webster under the brim of his hat. The valet advanced towards him with the air of an affable executioner, stepping daintily to the block. Mr. Marlowe, sir, inquired politely. Sam was startled, he could make nothing of this. Hey, what? How I, dear, pleasure of addressing Mr. S. Marlowe. Yes, that's my name. Mine is Webster, sir. I am Mr. Bennet's personal gentleman's gentleman. Miss Bennet entrusted me with this note to deliver to you, sir. Sam began to grasp the situation. For some reason or other, the dear girl had been prevented from coming this afternoon, and she had written to explain and to relieve his anxiety. It was like her. It was just the sweet, thoughtful thing he would have expected her to do. His contentment with the existing scheme of things returned. The sun shone out again, and he found himself amably disposed towards the messenger. Find a, he said, as he took the note. Extremely, sir, said Webster, outwardly unemotional, inwardly full of a grave pity. It was plain to him that there had been no previous little rift to prepare the young man for the cervical operation, which awaited him. And he edged a little nearer, in order to be handy to catch Sam, if the shock knocked him off the gate. As it happened, it did not. Having read the opening words of the note, Sam rocked violently. But his feet were twined by the lower bars, and this saved him from overbalancing. Webster stepped back, relieved. The note fluttered to the ground. Webster, picking it up and handing it back, was able to get a glimpse of the first two sentences. They confirmed his suspicions. The note was hot stuff. Assuming that it continued as it began, it was about the warmest thing of its kind that Penn had ever written. Webster had received one or two heated epistles from the sex in his time. Your man of gallantry can hardly hope to escape these unpleasantnesses. But none had got off the mark quite so swiftly. And with quite so much frigid violence as this. Thanks, said Sam mechanically. Not at all, sir. You are very welcome. Sam resumed his reading. A cold perspiration broke out on his forehead, his toes curled, and some things seemed to be crawling down the small of his back. His heart had moved from its proper place, and was now beating in his throat. He swallowed once or twice to remove the obstruction, but without success. A kind of pawl had settled on the landscape, blotting out the sun. Of all the rotten sensations in this world, the worst is the realization that a thousand to one chance has come off, and caused our wrongdoing to be detected. There had seemed no possibility of that little roost of his being discovered. Yet he was billy in full possession of the facts. It almost made the thing worse that you did not say how she had come into possession of them. This gave Sam that feeling of self-pity, that sense of having been ill-used by fate, which makes the bringing home of crime so particularly poignant. Fine day, he muttered. He had a sort of subconscious feeling, that it was imperative to keep engaging Webster in like conversation. Yes, sir. Weather still keeps up, agreed the valet, swavely. Sam frowned over the note. He felt injured. Sending a fellow note didn't give him a chance, if she'd come in person and denounced him. It would not have been an agreeable experience, but at least it would have been possible then, to have pleaded and cajoled, and all that sort of thing. But what could he do now? It seemed to him that his only possible course was to write an ocean reply, begging her to see him. He explored his pockets and found a pencil and a scrap of paper. For some moments he scribbled desperately. Then he folded the note. We'll take this to Miss Bennet, he said, holding it out. Webster took the missive, because he wanted to read it later at his leisure, but he shook his head. Useless, I fear, sir, he said gravely. What do you mean? I'm afraid it would affect little or nothing, sir. Sending Amis B notes. She is not in the proper frame of mind to appreciate them. I saw her face when she handed me the letter you have just read, and I assure you, sir, she is not in a malleable mood. You seem to know a lot about it. I have studied the sex, sir, said Webster modestly. I mean about my business confounded. You seem to know all about it. Why, yes, sir. I think I may say that I have grasped the position of affairs, and if you will permit me to say so, sir, you have my respectful sympathy. Dignity is a sensitive plant which flourishes only under the fairest conditions. Sam's had perished in the bleak east wind of Billy's note. In other circumstances he might have resented this intrusion of a stranger into his most intimate concerns. His only emotion now was one of dull but distinct gratitude. The four winds of heaven blew chilly upon his raw and unprotected soul, and he wanted to wrap it up in a mantle of sympathy, careless of the source from which he borrowed that mantle. If Webster the Valle felt disposed, as he seemed to indicate to comfort him, let the thing go on. At that moment, Sam would have accepted condolences from a cold heaver. I was reading a story, one of the nose-gay novelettes. I do not know if you're familiar with the series, sir, in which much the same situation occurred. It was entitled Cupid or Mammon. The heroine Lady Blanche Trefusus, forced by her parents to wed a wealthy suitor, dispatches a note to her humble lover, informing him that it cannot be. I believe it often happens like that, sir. You're all wrong, said Sam. It's not like that at all. Indeed, sir. I supposed it was. Nothing like it. I—I—Sam's dignity on its deathbed made a last effort to assert itself. I don't know what it's got to do with you. A precisely, sir, said Webster with dignity, just as you say. Good afternoon, sir. He swayed gracefully, conveying a suggestion of departure without moving his feet. The action was enough for Sam. Dignity gave an expiring gurgle and passed away, regretted by all. Don't go, he cried. The idea of being alone in this infernal lane without human support overpowered him. Moreover, Webster had personality. He exuded it. Already, Sam had begun to cling to him in spirit and rely on his support. Don't go. Certainly not, if you do not wish it, sir. Webster coughed gently to show his appreciation of the delicate nature of the conversation. He was consumed with curiosity, and his threatened departure had been but a pretense. A team of horses could not have moved Webster at that moment. Might I ask then what? There's been a misunderstanding, said Sam. At least there was, but now there isn't, if you see what I mean. I fear I have not quite grasped your meaning, sir. Well, I played a sort of, you might almost call it, a sort of trick on Miss Bennet. With the best of motives, of course. Of course, sir. And she's found out. I don't know how she's found out, but she has. So there you are. Of what nature would the trick be, sir? A species of roose, sir? Some kind of innocent deception? Well, it was like this. It was a complicated story to tell, and Sam, a prey to conflicting emotions, told it badly. But such was the almost superhuman intelligence of Webster, that he succeeded in grasping the salient points. Indeed, he said it reminded him of something of much the same kind in a nose-gay novelette. All for her. Where the hero, anxious to win the esteem of the lady of his heart, had bribed a tramp to simulate an attack upon her in a lonely road. The principal's the same, said Webster. Well, what did he do when she found out? She did not find out, sir. All ended happily, and never had the wedding bells in the old village church rung out a blithe appeal than they did at the subsequent union. Sam was thoughtful. Bribed a tramp to attack her, did he? Yes, sir. And she never thought much of him till that moment, sir. Very cold and haughty she had been, his social status being considerably inferior to her own. But when she cried for help, and he dashed out from behind a hedge, well, it made all the difference. I wonder where I could get a good tramp? Said, damn, meditatively. Webster shook his head. I really would hardly recommend such a procedure, sir. No, it would be difficult to make a tramp understand what you wanted. Sam brightened. I've got it. You pretend to attack her, and I'll— I couldn't, sir. I couldn't, really. I should jeopardize my situation. Oh, come, be a man. No, sir. I fear not. There's a difference between handing in your resignation. I was compelled to do that only recently, owing to a few words I had with the governor. Though subsequently prevailed upon to withdraw it. I say there's a difference between handing in your resignation and being given the sack. And that's what would happen without a character, what's more. And, lucky if it didn't mean a prison cell. No, sir. I should not contemplate such a thing. Then I don't see there's anything to be done, said Sam, morosely. Oh, I shouldn't say that, sir, said Webster, encouragingly. It's simply a matter of finding the way. The problem confronting you, I should say, us, said Sam, most decidedly, us. Thank you very much, sir. I would not have presumed, but if you say so, the problem confronting us, as I envisage it, resolves itself into this. You have offended Armist B, and she has expressed a disinclination ever to see you again. Now then, is it possible, in spite of her attitude, to recapture her esteem? Exactly, said Sam. There are several methods which occur to one. They don't occur to me. Well, for example, you might rescue her from a burning building, as in, true as steel. Said Fire to the House, eh? said Sam, reflectively. Yes, there might be something in that. I would hardly advise such a thing, said Webster, a little hastily. Flattered at the readiness with which his disciple was taking his advice, yet acutely alive to the fact that he slept at the top of the house himself. A little drastic, if I may say so. It might be better to save her from drowning, as in, the Earl's secret. Ah, but where would she drown? Well, there is a lake in the grounds. Excellent, said Sam, terrific! I knew I could rely on you. Say no more, the whole thing settled. You take her out rowing on the lake, and upset the boat. I plunge in. I suppose you can swim. No, sir. Oh, well, never mind. You'll manage somehow, I expect. Think the upturned boat, or something, I shouldn't wonder. There's always a way. Yes, that's the plan. When is the earliest you could arrange this? I fear such a course must be considered out of the question, sir. It really wouldn't do. I can't see a flaw in it. Well, in the first place, it would certainly jeopardize my situation. Oh, hang your situation. You talk as if you were a prime minister or something. You can easily get another situation. Valuable man like you, said Sam, ingratiatingly. No, sir, said Webster firmly. From boyhood up, I have always had a regular horror of water. I can't so much as go paddling without an uneasy feeling. The image of Webster paddling was arresting enough to occupy Sam's thoughts for a moment. It was an inspiring picture, and for an instant uplifted his spirits. Then they fell again. Well, I don't see what there is to be done, he said gloomily. It's no good making suggestions if you have some frivolous objection to all of them. My idea, said Webster, would be something which did not involve my own personal and active cooperation, sir. If it's all the same to you, I should prefer to limit my assistance to advice. I'm anxious to help, but I'm a man of regular habits, which I do not wish to disturb. Did you ever read Footpaths of Fate in the Nose Gay series, sir? I've only just remembered it. It contains the most helpful suggestion of the lot. There had been a misunderstanding between the heroine and the hero. Their names have slipped my mind, though I fancy his was Cyril. And she told him to hop it. To what? To leave her forever, sir. What do you think he did? How the deuce do I know? He kidnapped her little brother, sir. To whom she was devoted. Kept him hidden for a bit, and then returned him. And in her gratitude, all was forgotten and forgiven. And never, I know, never had the bells of the old village church wrung out a blithe appeal. Exactly, sir. Well, there, if you allow me to say so, you are, sir. You need seek no further for a plan of action. Miss Bennet hasn't got a little brother. No, sir. But she has a dog, and is greatly attached to it. Sam stared. From the expression on his face, it was evident that Webster imagined himself to have made a suggestion of exceptional intelligence. It struck Sam as the silliest he had ever heard. You mean I ought to steal her dog? Precisely, sir. But good heavens, have you seen that dog? The one to which I lewd is a small brown animal, with a fluffy tail. Yes, and a bark like a steam siren, and in addition to that, about eighty-five teeth, all sharper than razors. I couldn't get within ten feet of that dog without its lifting the roof off, and if I did it would chew me into small pieces. I had anticipated that difficulty, sir. In footpaths of fate, there was a nurse who assisted the hero by drugging the child. By Jove, said Sam, impressed. He rewarded her, said Webster, allowing his gaze to stray nonchalantly over the countryside, liberally, very liberally. If you mean that you expect me to reward you if you drug the dog, said Sam, don't worry. Let me bring this thing off, and you can have all I've got, and my cufflinks as well. Come now. This is really beginning to look like something. Speak to me more of this matter. Where do we go from here? I beg your pardon, sir. I mean, what's the next step in the scheme? Oh, lord! Sam's face fell. The light of hope died out in his eyes. It's all off. It can't be done. How could I possibly get into the house? I take it the little brute sleeps in the house. That need constitute no obstacle, sir, no obstacle at all. The animal sleeps in a basket in the hall. Perhaps you are familiar with the interior of the house, sir? I haven't been inside it since I was at school. I'm Mr. Hignett's cousin, you know. Indeed, sir, I wasn't aware. Mr. Hignett sprained his ankle this morning, poor gentleman. Has he? Said Sam, not particularly interested. I used to stay with him, he went on, during the holidays sometimes, but I've practically forgotten what the place is like inside. I remember the hall vaguely, fireplace up one side, one or two suits of armour standing about, a sort of window ledge near the front door. Precisely, sir. It is close beside that window ledge, that the animal's basket is situated. If I administer a slight soporific. Yes, but you haven't explained yet how I'm to get into the house in the first place. Quite easily, sir. I can admit you through the drawing-room windows while dinner is in progress. Fine. You can then secrete yourself in the cupboard in the drawing-room. Perhaps you recollect the cupboard to which I refer, sir? No, I don't remember any cupboard. As a matter of fact, when I used to stay at the house, the drawing-room was barred. Mrs. Higlet wouldn't let us inside it for fear we would smash her china. Is there a cupboard? Immediately behind the piano, sir. A nice roomy cupboard. I was glancing into it myself in a spirit of idle curiosity only the other day. It contains nothing except a few knick-knacks on an upper shelf. You could lock yourself in from the interior and be quite comfortably seated on the floor till the household retired to bed. Who would that be? They retire quite early, sir, as a rule. By half past ten the coast is generally clear. At that time I would suggest that I came down and knocked on the cupboard door to notify you that all was well. Sam was glowing with frank approval. You know you're a mastermind, he said enthusiastically. You're very kind, sir. One of the lads by Jove, said Sam, and not the worst of them. I don't want to flatter you, but there's a future for you in crime if you care to go in for it. I'm glad that you appreciate my poor efforts, sir. Then we will regard this scheme as past and approved. I should say we would. It's a bird. Very good, sir. I'll be round at a quarter to eight. Will that be right? Admirable, sir. And I say it about that soporific. Don't overdo it. Don't go killing the little beast. Oh no, sir. Well, said Sam. You can't say it's not a temptation. And you know what you Napoleons of the Underworld are. End of Chapter 15. Three Men Are The Made by Pidgey Woodhouse Chapter 16 Part 1 If there is one thing more than another which weighs upon the mind of a storyteller as he chronicles events which he has set out to describe, it is the thought that the reader may be growing impatient with him for straying from the main channel of his tale and devoting himself to what are, after all, minor developments. This story, for instance, opened with Mrs. Horace Hignet, the world-famous writer on Theosophy. Going over to America to begin a lecture tour, and no one realises more keenly than I do, then I have left Mrs. Hignet flat. I have thrust that great thinker into the background and concentrated my attention on the affairs of one who is both her mental and moral inferior, Sam Marlowe. I seem at this point to see the reader, a great brute of a fellow with beatling eyebrows and a jaw like the ram of a battleship, the sort of fellow who is full of determination and will stand no nonsense, rising to remark that he doesn't care what happened to Samuel Marlowe and that what he wants to know is how Mrs. Hignet made out on her lecturing tour. Did she go big in Buffalo? Did she have him tearing up the seats in Shinakete? Was she a riot in Chicago and a cyclone in St. Louis? Those are the points on which he desires information or give him his money back. I cannot supply the information. And before you condemn me, let me hastily add that the fault is not mine, but that of Mrs. Hignet herself. The fact is, she never went to Buffalo. Shinakete saw nothing of her. She did not get within a thousand miles of Chicago, nor did she penetrate to St. Louis. For the very morning after her son used to sail for England in the liner Atlantic, she happened to read in the paper one of those abridged passenger lists which the journals of New York are in the habit of printing, and got a nasty shock when she saw that among those whose society Eustace would enjoy during the voyage was Miss Bill Helmine of Bennet, daughter of J. Rufus Bennet of Bennet Mandelbaum and Co. And within five minutes of digesting this information, she was at her desk writing out telegrams cancelling all her engagements. Iron sold as this woman was, her fingers trembled as she wrote. She had a vision of Eustace and the daughter of J. Rufus Bennet strolling together on moondip decks, leaning over rails damp with sea spray, and in short, generally starting the whole trouble over again. In the height of the tourist season, it is not always possible for one who wishes to leave America to spring on the next boat. A long morning's telephoning to the offices of the Cunard and White Star brought Mrs. Hignet the depressing information that it would be a full week before she could sail for England. That meant that the inflammable Eustace would have over two weeks to conduct an uninterrupted wooing and Mrs. Hignet's heart sank till suddenly she remembered that so poor a sailor as her son was not likely to have had leisure for any strolling on the deck during the voyage of the Atlantic. Having realized this, she became calmer and went about her preparations for departure with an easier mind. The danger was still great, but there was a good chance that she might be in time to intervene. She wound up her affairs in New York and on the following Wednesday, boarded the Neuronia, bound for Southampton. The Neuronia is one of the slowest of the Cunard boats. It was built at a time when delirious crowds used to swoon on the dock if an ocean liner broke the record by getting across in nine days. It rolled over to Sherbourg, dallyed in that picturesque port for some hours, then sauntered across the channel, and strolled into Southampton water in the evening of the day on which Samuel Marlowe had sat in the lane, plotting with Webster the valet. At almost the exact moment when Sam, sidling through the windows of the drawing-room, slid into the cupboard behind the piano. Mrs. Hignet was standing at the customs barrier, telling the officials that she had nothing to declare. Mrs. Hignet was a general who believed in forced marches. A lesser woman might have taken the boat train to London and proceeded to windles at her ease on the following afternoon. Mrs. Hignet was made of sterner stuff. Having fortified herself for the late dinner, she hired an automobile, and set out on the cross-country journey. It was only when the car, a genuine antique, had broken down three times in the first ten miles that it became evident to her that it would be much too late to go to windles that night, and she directed the driver to take her instead to the Blue Boar in Windelhurst, where she arrived, tired but thankful to have reached it at all, at about eleven o'clock. At this point, many indeed most women, having had a tiring journey, would have gone to bed. But the familiar Hampshire air and the knowledge that half an hour's walking would take her to her beloved home, acted on Mrs. Hignet like a restorative. One glimpse of windles she felt that she must have before she retired for the night, if only to assure herself that it was still there. She had a cup of coffee, and a sandwich brought to her by the night-porter, whom she had roused from sleep, for bedtime is early in Windelhurst, and then informed him that she was going for a short walk and would ring when she returned. Her heart leaped joyfully as she turned in at the drive-gates of her home, and felt the well-remembered gravel crunching under her feet. The silhouette of the ruined castle against the summer sky gave her the feeling which all returning wanderers know. And when she stepped onto the lawn and looked at the black bulk of the house, indistinct and shadowy in its backing of trees, tears came to her eyes. She experienced a rush of emotion which made her feel quite faint, and which lasted until on tip-toeing nearer to the house in order to gloat more adequately upon it, she perceived that the French windows of the drawing-room were standing ajar. Sam had left them like this in order to facilitate departure. If a hurried departure should by any mischance be rendered necessary. And drawn curtains had kept the household from noticing the fact. All the proprietor in Mrs. Hignett was roused. This, she felt, indignantly, was the sort of thing she had been afraid would happen the moment her back was turned. Evidently, laxity, one might almost say anarchy, had set in directly she had removed the eye of authority. She marched to the window and pushed it open. She had now completely abandoned her kindly scheme of refraining from rousing the sleeping-house and spending the night at the inn. She stepped into the drawing-room with the single-minded purpose of rousing Eustace out of his sleep and giving him a good talking-to for having failed to maintain her own standard of efficiency among the domestic staff. If there was one thing on which Mrs. Horace Hignett had always insisted, it was that every window in the house must be closed at lights out. She pushed the curtains apart with a rattle and at the same moment, from the direction of the door, there came a low but distinct gasp which made her resolute heart jump and flutter. It was too dark to see anything distinctly, but in the instant before it turned and fled, she caught sight of a shadowy male figure and knew that her worst fears had been realized. The figure was too tall to be Eustace and Eustace, she knew, was the only man in the house. Male figures, therefore, that went flitting about windows, must be the figures of burglars. Mrs. Hignett, bold woman though she was, stood for an instant spellbound and for one moment, of not unpardonable panic, she tried to tell herself that she had been mistaken. Almost immediately, however, there came from the direction of the hall a dull, clunky sound as though something soft had been kicked followed by a low gurgle and the noise of staggering feet. Unless he was dancing a Parcell, out of sheer lightness of heart, the nocturnal visitor must have tripped over something. The latter theory was the correct one. Montague Webster was a man who, at many a subscription ball, had shaken a wicked dancing pump, and nothing in the proper circumstances pleased him better than to exercise the skill which had become his as a result of twelve private lessons at half a crown of visit. But he recognized the truth of the scriptural adage that there is a time for dancing and this was not it. His only desire when stealing into the drawing-room he had been confronted through the curtains by a female figure was to get back to his bedroom undetected. He supposed that one of the feminine members of the house-party must have been taking a stroll in the grounds. He did not wish to stay and be compelled to make laborious explanations of his presence there in the dark. He decided to postpone the knocking on the cupboard door, which had been the signal arranged between himself and Sam until a more suitable occasion. In the meantime, he bounded silently out into the hall and instantaneously tripped over the portly form of Smith the Bulldog, who roused from a light sleep to the knowledge that something was going on and being a dog who always liked to be in the center of the maelstrom of events had waddled out to investigate. By the time Mrs. Hignett pulled herself together sufficiently to feel brave enough to venture into the hall, Webster's presence of mind and Smith's gregariousness had combined to restore that part of the house to its normal nocturnal condition of emptiness. Webster's stagger had carried him almost up to the green bay's door leading to the servant's staircase, and he proceeded to pass through it without checking his momentum, closely followed by Smith, who, now convinced that interesting events were in progress, which might possibly culminate in cake, had abandoned the idea of sleep, and meant to see the thing through. He gambled in Webster's wake up the stairs and along the passage leading to the latter's room, and only paused when the door was brusquely shut in his face, upon which he sat down to think the thing over. He was in no hurry. The night was before him, promising. As far as he could judge from the way it had opened, excellent entertainment. Mrs. Hignett had listened fearfully to the uncouth noises from the hall. The burglars, for she had now discovered that there were at least two of them, appeared to be actually romping. The situation had grown beyond her handling. If this troop of Terpsichorian marauders was to be dislodged, she must have assistance. It was man's work. She made a brave dash through the hall, mercifully unmolested, found the stairs, raced up them, and fell through the doorway of her son Eustace's bedroom, like a spent marathon runner staggering past the winning post. End of Part 1 of Chapter 16 Part 2 In the moment which elapsed before either of the two could calm their agitated brains to speech, Eustace became aware, as never before, of the truth of the well-known line, peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away. Eustace! Mrs. Hignett gasped hand on heart. Eustace, there are men in the house! This fact was just the one which Eustace had been wondering how to break to her. I know, he said uneasily. You know! Mrs. Hignett stared. Did you hear them? Hear them! said Eustace, puzzled. The drawing-in window was left open, and there are two burglars in the hall. Oh, I say no! That's rather rotten! said Eustace. I saw and heard them, come with me and arrest them. But I can't, I've sprained my ankle. Sprained your ankle? How very inconvenient! When did you do that? This morning. How did it happen? Eustace hesitated. I was jumping. Jumping? But, oh! Mrs. Hignett's sentence trailed off into a suppressed shriek, as the door opened. Immediately following on Eustace's accident, Jane Hubbard had constituted herself his nurse. It was she who had bound up his injured ankle in a manner which the doctor on his arrival had admitted himself unable to improve upon. She had sat with him through the long afternoon, and now, fearing lest a return of the pain might render him sleepless, she had come to bring him a selection of books to see him through the night. Jane Hubbard was a girl who, by nature and training, was well adapted to bear shocks. She accepted the advent of Mrs. Hignett without visible astonishment, though inwardly she was wondering who the visitor might be. Good evening! she said placidly. Mrs. Hignett, having rallied from her moment of weakness, glared at the new arrival dumbly. She could not place Jane. She had the air of a nurse, and yet she wore no uniform. Who are you? she asked stiffly. Who are you? countered Jane. I, said Mrs. Hignett portentiously, am the owner of this house, and I should be glad to know what you are doing in it. I am Mrs. Horace Hignett. A charming smile, spread itself over Jane's finely cut face. I am so glad to meet you, she said. I have heard so much about you. Indeed! said Mrs. Hignett. And now I should like to hear a little about you. I have read all your books, said Jane. I think they are wonderful. In spite of herself, in spite of her feeling that this young woman was straying from the point, Mrs. Hignett could not check a slight influx of amiability. She was an authorist who received a good deal of incense from admirers, but she could always do with a bit more. Besides, most of the incense came by mail. Living a quiet and retired life in the country, it was rarely that she got it handed to her face to face. She melted, quite perceptibly. She did not cease to look like a basilisk, but she began to look like a basilisk who has had a good lunch. My favourite, said Jane, who for a week had been sitting daily in a chair in the drawing-room, adjourning the table on which the authorist's complete works were assembled. Is the spreading light? I do like the spreading light. It was written some years ago, said Mrs. Hignett, with something approaching cordiality, and I have since revised some of the views I state in it, but I still consider it quite a good textbook. Of course, I can see that what of tomorrow is more profound, said Jane. But I read the spreading light first, and of course that makes a difference. I can quite see that it would, agreed Mrs. Hignett. One's first step across the threshold of a new mind, one's first glimpse. Yes, it makes you feel like some watcher of the skies, said Mrs. Hignett, when a new planet swims into his ken, or like, yes, doesn't it? said Jane. Eustace, who had been listening to the conversation with every muscle tense, in much the same mental attitude as a peaceful citizen in a wild west saloon, who holds himself in readiness to dive under a table directly the shooting begins, began to relax. What he had shrinkingly anticipated would be the biggest thing since the Dempsey Carpentier fight, seemed to be turning into a pleasant social and literary evening, not unlike what he imagined, a meeting of old Vassar Lumney must be. For the first time, since his mother had come into the room, he indulged in the luxury of a deep breath. But what are you doing here? asked Mrs. Hignett, returning almost reluctantly to the main issue. Eustace perceived that he had breathed too soon. In an unobtrusive way, he subsided into the bed and softly pulled the sheets over his head, following the excellent tactics of the great Duke of Wellington in his peninsular campaign. When in doubt, the Duke used to say, retire and dig yourself in. I'm nursing, dear Eustace, said Jane. Mrs. Hignett quivered, and cast an eye on the lump in the bed clothes which represented dear Eustace. A cold fear had come upon her. Dear Eustace, she repeated mechanically. We're engaged, said Jane. We got engaged this morning, and that's how he sprained his ankle. When I accepted him, he tried to jump a holly-bush. Engaged, Eustace? Is this true? Yes. Said a muffled voice from the interior of the bed. And poor Eustace is so worried, continued Jane, about the house. She went on quickly. He doesn't want to deprive you of it, because he knows what it means to you. So he's hoping, we're both hoping, that you will accept it as a present when we're married. We really shan't want it, you know. We're going to live in London. So you will take it, won't you? To please us. We, all of us, even the greatest of us, have our moments of weakness. Let us then not express any surprise of the sudden collapse of one of the world's greatest female thinkers. As the meaning of this speech smote on Mrs. Horace Hignett's understanding, she sank weeping into a chair. The ever-present fear that had haunted her had been exorcised. Windlors was hers in perpetuity. The relief was too great. She sat in her chair and gulped. And Eustace, greatly encouraged, emerged slowly from the bed-clothes like a worm, after a thunderstorm. How long this poignant scene would have lasted, one cannot say. It is a pity that it was cut short, for I should have liked to dwell upon it. But, at this moment, from the regions downstairs, there suddenly burst upon the silent night such a whirlwind of sound, as effectually dissipated the tense emotion in the room. Somebody had touched off the orchestrian in the drawing-room. And that willing instrument had begun again in the middle of a bar at the point where it had been switched off. Its wailing lament for the passing of summer filled the whole house. That's too bad, said Jane a little annoyed, at this time of night. It's the burglars, quavered Mrs. Hignett, in the stress of recent events, she had completely forgotten the existence of those enemies of society. They were dancing in the hall when I arrived, and now they're playing the orchestrian. Light-hearted chaps, said Eustace, admiring the sang-fois of the criminal world. Full of spirits. This won't do, said Jane, shaking her head. We can't have this sort of thing. I'll go and fetch my gun. No birdie, you dear, panted Mrs. Hignett, cleaning to her arm. Jane Hubbard laughed. Murder me! She said amusedly. I'd like to catch them at it. Mrs. Hignett stood staring at the door, as Jane closed it safely behind her. Eustace! She said solemnly. That is a wonderful girl. Yes, she once killed a panther, or a puma. I forget which, with a hatpin, said Eustace with enthusiasm. I could wish you no better wife, said Mrs. Hignett. She broke off with a sharp wail. Out in the passage, something like a battery of artillery had roared. The door opened, and Jane Hubbard appeared, slipping a fresh cartridge into the elephant-gun. One of them was popping about outside here, she announced. I took a shot at him, but I'm afraid I missed. The visibility was bad. At any rate, he went away. In this last statement, she was perfectly accurate. Supreme Mortimer, who had been aroused by the Orchestrian, and who had come to see what was the matter, had gone away at the rate of fifty miles an hour. He'd been creeping down the passage, when he found himself suddenly confronted by a demon. Suddenly confronted by a dim figure, which without a word, had attempted to slay him with an enormous gun. The shot had whistled past his ears, and gone singing down the corridor. This was enough for Bream. He had returned to his room in three strides, and was now under the bed. The burglars might take everything in the house and welcome, so that they did not molest his privacy. That was the way Bream looked at it, and very sensible of him, too, I consider. We better go downstairs, said Jane. Bring the candle, not you used to styling. Don't you stir out a bed? I won't, said Eustace, obediently. Three Men and a Maid by Pidgey Woodhouse Chapter 16 Part 3 Of all the leisure pursuits, there are few less attractive to the thinking man, than sitting in a dark cupboard waiting for a house-party to go to bed, and Sam, who had established himself in the one behind the piano, had a quarter to eight, soon began to feel as if he had been there for an eternity. He could dimly remember a previous existence, in which he had not been sitting in his present position, but it seemed so long ago, that it was shadowy and unreal to him. The ordeal of spending the evening in this retreat had not appeared formidable when he had contemplated it that afternoon in the lane, but now that he was actually undergoing it. It was extraordinary how many disadvantages it had. Cupboards as a class are badly ventilated, and this one seemed to contain no air at all, and the warmth of the night, combined with the cupboard's natural stuffiness, had soon begun to reduce Sam to a condition of pulp. He seemed to himself to be sagging like an ice-cream in front of a fire. The darkness, too, weighed in upon him. He was abominably thirsty. Also, he wanted to smoke. In addition to this, the small of his back tickled, and he more than suspected the cupboard of harboring mice. Not once, nor twice, but many hundred times, he wished that the ingenious Webster had thought of something simpler. Here's was a position, which would just have suited one of those Indian mystics who sit perfectly still for twenty years contemplating the infinite, but it reduced Sam to an almost imbecile state of boredom. He tried counting sheep. He tried going over his past life in his mind, from the earliest moment he could recollect, and thought he had never encountered a duller series of episodes. He found a temporary solace by playing a succession of mental golf games over all the courses he could remember, and he was just teeing up for the sixteenth at Muirfield, after playing Hoylake, St Andrews, Westwood Howe, Hanger Hill, Midsurry, Walton Heath, Garden City, and the engineer's club at Roslin, L.I. When the light ceased to shine through the crack under the door, and he awoke with a sense of dull incredulity to the realisation that the occupants of the drawing-room had called it a day, and that his vigil was over. But was it? Once more alert, Sam became cautious. True, the light seemed to be off. But did that mean anything in a country house where people had the habit of going and strolling about the garden at all hours? Probably they were still popping about all over the place. At any rate, it was not worth risking coming out of his lair. He remembered that Webster had promised to come and knock an all-clear signal on the door. It would be safer to wait for that. But the moments went by, and there was no knock. Sam began to grow impatient. The last few minutes of waiting in the cupboard are always the hardest. Time seemed to stretch out again interminably. Once he thought he heard footsteps, but that led to nothing. Eventually having strained his ears and finding everything still, he decided to take a chance. He fished in his pocket for the key, cautiously unlocked the door, opened it by slow inches, and peered out. The room was in blackness. The house was still. All was well. With the feeling of a life-prisoner emerging from the Bastille, he began to crawl stiffly forward. And it was just then that the first of the disturbing events occurred, which were to make this night memorable to him. Something like a rattlesnake suddenly went off with a whir. And his head, jerking up, collided with the piano. It was only the cuckoo clock, which now, having cleared its throat, as was its custom before striking, proceeded to cook eleven times in rapid succession, before subsiding with another rattle. But to Sam it sounded like the end of the world. He sat in the darkness, massaging his bruised skull. His hours of imprisonment and the cupboard had had a bad effect on his nervous system, and he vacillated between tears of weakness and a militant desire to get at the cuckoo clock with a hatchet. He felt that it had done it on purpose, and was now chuckling to itself in fancied security. For quite a minute he raged silently, and any cuckoo clock, which had strayed with his reach, would have had a bad time of it. Then his attention was diverted. So concentrated was Sam on his private vendetta with the clock, that no ordinary happening would have had the power to distract him. What occurred now was by no means ordinary, and it distracted him like an electric shock. As he sat on the floor, passing a tender hand over the egg-shaped bump, which had already begun to manifest itself beneath his hair, something cold and wet touched his face, and paralyzed him so completely, both physically and mentally, that he did not move a muscle, but just congealed where he sat into a solid block of ice. He felt vaguely that this was the end. His heart stopped beating, and he simply could not imagine it ever starting again. And if your heart refuses to beat, what hope is there for you? At this moment something heavy and solid struck him squarely in the chest, rolling him over, something gurgled asthmatically in the darkness, something began to lick his eyes, ears, and chin in a sort of ecstasy, and, clutching out, he found his arms full of totally unexpected bulldog. Whispered Sam tersely, recovering his faculties with a jerk, go away! Smith took the opportunity of his lips having opened to lick the roof of his mouth. Smith's attitude in the matter was that providence in its all-seeing wisdom had sent him a human being at a moment when he had reluctantly been impelled to reconcile himself with a total absence of such indispensable adjuncts of a good time. And that, now the revels might commence. He had just trotted downstairs in a rather disconsolate frame of mind, after waiting with no result in front of Webster's bedroom door, and it was a real treat to him, to meet a man, especially one seated in such a jolly and sociable manner on the floor. He welcomed Sam like a long-lost friend. Between Smith and the humans who provided him with dog biscuits and occasionally with sweet cakes, there had always existed a state of misunderstanding which no words could remove. The position of the humans was quite clear. They had elected Smith to his present position on a straight watchdog ticket. They expected him to be one of those dogs who roused the house and saved the spoons. They looked to him to pin burglars by the leg and hold on to the police arrived. Smith simply could not grasp such an attitude of mine. He regarded Wendell's not as a private house, but as a social club, and was utterly unable to see any difference between the human beings he knew and the strangers who dropped in for a late chat after the place was locked up. He had no intention of biting Sam. The idea never entered his head. At the present moment what he felt about Sam was that he was one of the best fellows he had ever met, and that he loved him like a brother. Sam, in his unnerved state, could not bring himself to share these amiable sentiments. He was thinking bitterly that Webster might have had the intelligence to warn him of bulldogs on the premises. It was just a sort of woollen-headed thing fellows did, forgetting facts like that. He scrambled stiffly to his feet and tried to pierce the darkness that hemmed him in. He ignored Smith, who snuffled sportively about his ankles, and made for the slightly less black oblong which he talked with the door leading into the hall. He moved warily, but not warily enough to prevent him canoning into and almost upsetting a small table with a vase on it. The table rocked and the vase jumped, and the first bit of luck that had come to Sam that night was when he reached out at a venture and caught it just as it was about to bound onto the carpet. He stood there shaking. The narrowness of the escape turned him cold. If he had been an instant later there would have been a crash, loud enough to wake a dozen sleeping-houses. This little thing could not go on. He must have light. It might be a risk. There might be a chance of somebody upstairs seeing it and coming down to investigate, but it was a risk that must be taken. He declined to go on stumbling about in this darkness any longer. He groped his way with infinite care to the door. On the wall adjoining which, he presumed, the electric light switch would be. It was nearly ten years since he had last been inside windows, and it never occurred to him that in this progressive age, even a woman like his aunt Adeline, of whom he could believe almost anything, would still be using candles and oil lamps as a means of illumination. His only doubt was whether the switch was where it was in most houses near the door. It is odd to reflect that as his searching fingers touched the knob, a delicious feeling of relief came to Samuel Marlowe. This misguided young man actually felt, at that moment, that his troubles were over. He positively smiled as he placed a thumb on the knob and shoved. He shoved, strongly and sharply, and instantaneously there leaped at him out of the darkness a blair of music which appeared to his disordered mind quite solid. It seemed to wrap itself round him. It was all over the place. In a single instant the world had become one vast bellow of tosties goodbye. How long he stood there, frozen he did not know. Nor can one say how long he would have stood there had nothing further come to invite his notice elsewhere. But suddenly, drowning in the impromptu concert, there came from somewhere upstairs the roar of a gun and, when he heard that, Sam's rigid limbs relaxed and a violent activity descended upon him. He bounded out into the hall, looking to the right and to the left for a hiding place. One of the suits of armour which had been familiar to him in his boyhood loomed up in front of him and, with the sight, came the recollection of how, when a mere child on his first visit to Wendell's playing hide-and-seek with his cousin Eustace, he had concealed himself inside this very suit, and had not only baffled Eustace through a long summer evening, but had wound up almost scaring him into a decline by booing at him through the visor of the helmet. Happy days! Happy days! He leaped at the suit of armour. The helmet was a tight fit, but he managed to get his head into it at last, and the body of the thing was quite roomy. Thank heaven! said Sam. He was not comfortable, but comfort just there was not his primary need. Smith, the bulldog, well satisfied with the way things had happened sat down, wheezing slightly, to await developments. End of Chapter 16 Part 3, Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Chapter 16 Part 4 Of Three Men and the Made 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 Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Three Men and the Made by P. G. Woodhouse Chapter 16 Part 4 He Had Not Long to Wait In a few minutes the hall had filled up nicely. There was Mr. Mortimer in his shirt sleeves, Mr. Bennett in his pajamas and a dressing gown, Mrs. Hignet in a travelling costume, Jane Hubbard with her elephant gun, and Billy in a dinner dress. Smith welcomed them all impartially. Somebody lit a lamp, and Mrs. Hignet stared speechlessly at the mob. Mr. Bennett! Mr. Mortimer! Mrs. Hignet, what are you doing here? Mrs. Hignet drew herself up stiffly. What an odd question, Mr. Mortimer! I am in my own house. But you rented it to me for the summer, at least your son did. Eustace let you windles for the summer, said Mrs. Hignet incredulously. Jane Hubbard returned from the drawing-room where she had been switching off the orchestrion. Let us talk all that over cosily tomorrow, she said. The point now is that there are burglars in the house. Burglars? cried Mr. Bennett aghast. I thought it was you playing that infernal instrument, Mortimer. What on earth would I play it for at this time of night? said Mr. Mortimer irritably. It appeared only to evidence that the two old friends were again on the verge of one of their distressing fallings out. But Jane Hubbard intervened once more. This practical-minded girl disliked the introducing of side issues into the conversation. She was there to talk about burglars, and she intended to do so. For goodness' sake, stop it, she said. Almost petulantly, for one usually so superior to emotion. There will be lots of time for quarrelling to-morrow. Just now we have to catch these. I am not quarrelling, said Mr. Bennett. Yes, you are, said Mr. Mortimer. I'm not. You are. Don't argue. I'm not arguing. You are. I'm not. Jane Hubbard had practically every noble quality which a woman can possess, with the exception of patients. A patient woman would have stood by, shrinking from interrupting the dialogue. Jane Hubbard's robust course was to raise the elephant-gun, pointed at the front door, and pulled the trigger. I thought that would stop you, she said complacently, as the echoes died away and Mr. Bennett had finished leaping into the air. She inserted a fresh cartridge and sloped arms. Now the question is, you made me bite my tongue, said Mr. Bennett, deeply aggrieved. Serves you right, said Jane placidly. Now the question is, have the fellows got away, or are they hiding somewhere in the house? I think they're still in the house. The police, exclaimed Mr. Bennett, forgetting his lacerated tongue and his other grievances. We must summon the police. Obviously, said Mrs. Hignett, withdrawing her fascinated gaze from the ragged hole in the front door, the cost of repairing which she had been mentally assessing. We must send for the police at once. We don't really need them, you know, said Jane. If you all go to bed and leave me to pot around with my gun, and blow the whole house to pieces, said Mrs. Hignett tartly, she had begun to revise her original estimate of this girl. To her, a windows was sacred, and anyone who went about shooting holes in it forfeited her esteem. Shall I go for the police, said Billy, I could bring them back in ten minutes in the car. Certainly not, said Mr. Bennett, my daughter gadding about all over the countryside in an automobile at this time of night. If you think I ought not to go alone, I could take Bream. Where is Bream? said Mr. Mortimer. The odd fact that Bream was not among those present suddenly presented itself to the company. Where can he be? said Billy. Jane Hubbard laughed the wholesome indulgent laugh of one who is broad-minded enough to see the humour of the situation, even when the joke is at her expense. What a silly girl I am, she said. I do believe that was Bream, I shot out upstairs. How foolish of me making a mistake like that. You shot my only son? It cried Mr. Mortimer. I shot at him, said Jane. My belief is that I missed him. Though how I came to do it beats me. I don't suppose I've missed a sitter like that since I was a child in the nursery. Course, she proceeded, looking on the reasonable side. The visibility wasn't good, and I fired from the hip. But it's no use saying I ought at least to have winged him, because I ought. She shook her head with a touch of self-reproach. I shall be chafed about this if it comes out. She said regretfully. The poor boy must be in his room, said Mr. Mortimer. Under the bed, if you ask me, he said, Jane, blowing on the barrel of her gun and polishing it with the side of her hand. He's all right. Leave him alone, and the housemaid will sweep him up in the morning. Oh, he can't be! cried Billy, revolted. A girl of high spirit. It seemed to her a repellent, that the man she was engaged to marry should be displaying such a craven spirit. At that moment she despised and hated Breem Mortimer. I think she was wrong, mind you. It's not my place to criticise the little group of people whose simple annals I am relating. My position is merely that of a reporter. But personally, I think highly of Breem's sturdy common sense. If somebody loosed off an elephant gun at me in a dark corridor, I would climb on to the roof and pull it up after me. Still, rightly or wrongly, that was how Billy felt, and it flashed across her mind that Samuel Marlowe, scoundrel though he was, would not have behaved like this. And, for a moment, a certain wistfulness added itself to the varied emotions then engaging her mind. I'll go and look if you like, said Jane agreeably. You amuse yourself, somehow, till I come back. She ran easily up the stairs, three at a time, and Mr. Mortimer turned to Mr. Bennett. It's all very well you're saying, well, her minor mustn't go. But if she doesn't, how can we get the police? The house isn't on the phone, and nobody else can drive the car. That's true, said Mr. Bennett, wavering. I'm going, said Billy, resolutely. It occurred to her, as it occurred to so many women before her, how helpless men are in a crisis. The temporary withdrawal of Jane Hubbard had had the effect which the removal of a rudder has on a boat. It's the only thing to do, I should be back in no time. She stepped firmly to the coat rack, and began to put on her motoring cloak. And, just then, Jane Hubbard came downstairs, shepherding before her a pale and glassy-eyed brim. Right under the bed, she announced cheerfully, making a noise like a piece of fluff in order to deceive burglars. Billy cast a scornful glance at her fiancé. Absolutely unjustified, in my opinion, but nevertheless she cast it. But it had no effect at all. Terror had stunned Brim Mortimer's perceptions. His was what the doctors call a penumbral mental condition. He was in a sort of trance. Brim, said Billy, I want you to come in the car with me to fetch the police. All right, said Brim, get your coat. All right, said Brim, and cap. All right, said Brim. He followed Billy in a docile manner out through the front door, and they made their way to the garage at the back of the house, both silent. The only difference between their respective silences was that Billy's was thoughtful, while Brim's was just the silence of a man who has unhitched his brain, and is getting along as well as he can without it. In the hall they had left, Jane Hubbard once more took command of affairs. Well, that's something done, she said, scratching Smith's broad back with the muzzle of her weapon. Something accomplished, something done, has earned a night's repose. Not to begin to get it yet, I think those fellows are hiding somewhere, and we ought to search the house and route them out. It's such a pity Smith isn't a bloodhound. I like you personally, Smithy, but you're about as much practical use in a situation like this as a cold in the head. You're a good K-cound, but as a watchdog you don't finish in the first ten. The K-cound, charmed at the compliment, frisked about her feet like a young elephant. The thing to do, continued Jane, is to go through the ground floor rooms. She paused to strike a match against the suit of armor nearest to her, a proceeding which elicited a sharp cry of protest from Mrs. Hignett, and lit a cigarette. I'll go first as I've got a gun. She blew a cloud of smoke. I shall want somebody with me to carry a light, and choo! What? said Jane. I didn't speak, said Mr. Mortimer. Who am I to speak? He went on bitterly. Who am I that it should be supposed that I have anything sensible to suggest? Somebody spoke, said Jane. I, a choo! Do you feel a draft, Mr. Bennett? cried Jane sharply, wheeling round on him. There is a draft, began Mr. Bennett. Well, finish sneezing, and I'll go on. I didn't sneeze. Somebody sneezed. It seemed to come from just behind you, said Mrs. Hignett, nervously. It couldn't have come from just behind me, said Jane, because there isn't anything behind me from which it could have. She stopped, suddenly. In her eyes the light of understanding, on her face the set expression which was wanted to come on it, on the eve of action. Oh! she said in a different voice, a voice which was cold and tense and sinister. Oh, I see! She raised her gun, and placed a muscular forefinger on the trigger. Come out of that, she said. Come out of that suit of armour, and let's have a look at you. I can explain everything, said a muffled voice through the visor of the helmet. I kinda choo! The smoke of the cigarette tickled Sam's nostrils again, and he suspended his remarks. I shall count three, said Jane hovered. One, two, I'm coming, I'm coming, said Sam, petulantly. It better, said Jane. I can't get this dashed helmet off. If you don't come quick, I'll blow it off. Sam stepped out into the hall, a picturesque figure which combined the costumes of two widely separated centuries. Modern as far as the neck, he slipped back at that point to the middle ages. Hands up, commanded Jane hovered. My hands are up, retorted Sam querilously, as he wrenched at his unbecoming headwear. Never mind trying to raise your hat, said Jane. If you've lost the combination, we'll dispense with the formalities. What we're anxious to hear is what you're doing in the house at this time of night, and who your pals are. Come along my lad, make a clean breast of it, and perhaps you'll get off easier. Are you a gang? Do I look like a gang? You ask me what you look like. My name is Marlowe, Samuel Marlowe. Alias what? Alias nothing. I say my name is Samuel Marlowe. An explosive roar burst from Mr. Bennett. The scoundrel! I know him, I forbid him the house, and, and by what right did you forbid people my house? Mr. Bennett, said Mrs. Hignett with a serbity. I've rented the house. Mortimer and I rented it from your son. Yes, yes, yes, said Jane Hubbard. Never mind about that. So, you know this fellow, do you? I don't know him. You said you did. I refuse to know him, went on Mr. Bennett. I won't know him. I declined to have anything to do with him. But you identify him. If he says he's Samuel Marlowe, assented Mr. Bennett grudgingly, I suppose he is. I can't imagine anybody saying he was Samuel Marlowe. If he didn't know, it could be proved against him. Are you my nephew, Samuel? said Mrs. Hignett. Yes, said Sam. Well, what are you doing in my house? It's my house, said Mr. Bennett, for the summer. Henry Mortimer's and mine, isn't that right, Henry? Dead right, said Mr. Mortimer. There, said Mr. Bennett, you hear? And when Henry Mortimer says a thing, it's so. There's nobody's word I'd take before Henry Mortimer's. When Rufus Bennett makes an assertion, said Mr. Mortimer, highly flattered by these kind words, you can bank on it. Rufus Bennett's word is his bond. Rufus Bennett is a white man. The two old friends clasped hands with a good deal of feeling. I am not disputing Mr. Bennett's claim to belong to the Caucasian race, said Mrs. Hignett. I merely maintain that this house is, yes, yes, yes, yes, interrupted Jane. You can thresh all that out some other time. The point is, if this fellow is your nephew, I don't see what we can do. We'll have to let him go. I came to this house, said Sam, raising his visor to facilitate speech, to make a social call. At this hour of the night, snapped Mrs. Hignett. You always were an inconsiderate boy, Samuel. I came to inquire after poor Eustace's ankle. I've only just heard that the poor chap was ill. He's getting along quite well, said Jane, melting. If I'd known you were so fond of Eustace. He's all right, is he? said Sam. Well, not quite all right, but he's going on very nicely. Fine. Eustace and I are engaged, you know. No, really? Splendid. I can't see you very distinctly. How those Johnny's in the old days ever contrived to put up a scrap with things like this on their heads beats me. But you sound a good sort. I hope you'll be very happy. Thank you ever so much, Mr. Marlowe. I'm sure we shall. Eustace is one of the best. How nice of you to say so. All this, interrupted Mrs. Hignett, who had been a chafing auditor of this exchange of courtesies, is beside the point. Why did you dance in the hall, Samuel, and play the orchestrion? Yes, said Mr. Bennet, reminded of his grievance, waking people up. Scaring us all to death, complained Mr. Mortimer. I remember you as a boy, Samuel, said Mrs. Hignett, lamentably lacking in consideration for others, and concentrated only on your selfish pleasures. You seem to have altered very little. Don't belly-rag the poor man, said Jane Hubbard. Be human! Lend him a can opener. I shall do nothing of the sort, said Mrs. Hignett. I never liked him, and I dislike him now. He's got himself into this trouble through his own wrong-headedness. It's not his fault, his head's the wrong size, said Jane. He must get himself out, as best he can, said Mrs. Hignett. Very well, said Sam, with bitter dignity. Then I will not trespass further on your hospitality, Aunt Adeline. I have no doubt the local blacksmith will be able to get this damned thing off me. I shall go to him now. I will let you have the helmet, back by parcel-post, at the earliest possible opportunity. Good night! He walked coldly to the front door. And there are people, he remarked sardonically, who say their blood is thicker than water. I bet they never had any aunts. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Three Men Are Dermayed by Pidgey Woodhouse, Chapter 16, Part 5 Billy, meanwhile, with Bream trotting docilely at her heels, had reached the garage and started the car. Like all cars which have been spending a considerable time in secluded inaction, it did not start readily. At each application of Billy's foot on the self-starter, it emitted a tinny and reproachful sound, then seemed to go to sleep again. Eventually, however, the engines began to revolve, and the machine moved reluctantly out into the drive. The battery must be run down, said Billy. All right, said Bream. Billy cast a glance of contempt at him out of the corner of her eyes. She hardly knew why she had spoken to him, except that, as all automobilists are aware, the impulse to say rude things about their battery is almost irresistible. To an automobilist, the art of conversation consists in wrapping out scathing remarks either about the battery or the oiling system. Billy switched on the headlights and turned the car down the dark drive. She was feeling thoroughly upset. Her idealistic nature had received a painful shock on the discovery of the yellow streak in Bream. The quality yellow streak was to understate the facts. It was a great belt of saffron, encircling his whole soul. That she will home mine her Bennett, who had gone through the world seeking a gala-had, should finish off her career as the wife of a man who hid under beds, simply because people shot at him with elephant guns, was abhorrent to her. Why, Samuel Marlowe would have perished rather than do such a thing. You might say what you liked about Samuel Marlowe, and, of course, his habit of playing practical jokes put him beyond the pale. But nobody could question his courage. Look at the way he had dived overboard that time in the harbour, at New York. Billy found herself thinking hard about Samuel Marlowe. There are only a few makes of car in which you can think hard about anything except the actual driving without stalling the engines. And Mr. Bennett's twin-six complex was not one of them. It stopped as if it had been waiting for the signal. The noise of the engine died away. The wheels ceased to revolve. The automobile did everything except lie down. It was a particularly pig-headed car, and right from the start it had been unable to see the sense in this midnight expedition. It seemed now to have the idea that if it just lay low and did nothing, presently it would be taken back to its cosy garage. Billy trod on the self-starter. Nothing happened. You'll have to get down and crank her, she said curtly. All right, said Bream. Well, go on, said Billy impatiently. Eh? Get out and crank her! Bream emerged for an instant from his trance. All right, he said. The art of cranking a car is one that is not given to all men. Some of our greatest and wisest stand helpless before the task. It is a job towards the consummation of which a noble soul and a fine brain help not at all. A man may have all the other gifts, and yet be unable to accomplish a task which the fellow at the garage does with one quiet, quick flick of the wrist, without even bothering to remove his chewing gum. This being so, it was not only unkind, but foolish of Billy to grime patient as Bream's repeated efforts failed of their object. It was wrong of her to click her tongue, and certainly she ought not to have told Bream that he was not fit to churn butter. But women are an emotional sex, and must be forgiven much in moments of mental stress. Give it a good sharp twist, she said. All right, said Bream. Here let me do it, cried Billy. She jumped down and snatched the thing of me from his hand. With bent brows and set teeth, she wrenched it round. The engine gave a faint protesting mutter, like a dog that has been disturbed in its sleep, and was still once more. May I help? It was not Bream who spoke, but a strange voice, a sepulchral voice. The sort of voice someone would have used in one of Edgar Allan Poe's chiffer little tales, if he had been buried alive and were speaking from the family vault. Coming suddenly out of the night, it affected Bream painfully. He added a sharp exclamation, and gave a bound, which, if he had been a Russian dancer, would probably have caused the management to raise his salary. He was in no frame of mind to bear up under sudden sepulchral voices. Billy, on the other hand, was pleased. The high-spirited girl was just beginning to fear that she was unequal to the task, which she had chided Bream for being unable to perform, and this was mortifying her. Oh, would you mind? Thank you so much. The self-start has gone wrong. Into the glare of the headlights, there stepped a strange figure. Strange, I was to say, in these tame modern times. In the Middle Ages, he would have excited no comment at all. Passers-by would simply have said to themselves, Ah, another of those nights, or far after the dragons, and would have gone their way with a civil greeting. But in the present age, it is always somewhat startling to see a helmeted head pop up in front of your automobile. But anyway, it startled Bream. I'll go further. It gave Bream the shock of a lifetime. He had had shocks already that night, but none to be compared with this. Or perhaps it was that this shock, coming on top of those shocks, affected him more disastrously than it would have done. If it had been the first of the series instead of the last. One may express the thing briefly. By saying that, as far as Bream was concerned, Sam's unconventional appearance put the lid on it. He did not hesitate. He did not pause to make comments or ask questions. With a single cat-like screech, which took years off the lives of the abruptly-wakened birds roosting in the neighbouring trees, he dashed away towards the house, and, reaching his room, locked the door and pushed the bed, the chest of drawers, two chairs, the towel-stand, and three pairs of boots against it. Only then did he feel comparatively safe. Out on the drive, Billy was staring at the man in armour, who had now with a masterful wrench, which informed the car right away that he would stand no nonsense, set the engine going again. Why, why, she stammered, why are you wearing that thing on your head? Because I can't get it off. Hollow as the voice was, Billy recognised it. Mr. Hollow, she exclaimed. Get in, said Sam. He cheated himself at the steering wheel. Where can I take you? Go away, said Billy. Get in. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to talk to you. Get in. I won't. Sam, bent over the side of the car, put his hands under her arms, lifted her like a kitten, and deposited her on the seat beside him. Then, throwing in the clutch, he drove at an ever-increasing speed down the drive and out into the silent road. Strange creatures of the night came and went in the glow of the headlights. End of Chapter 16, Part 5, Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org