Uneasy Money

by P. G. Wodehouse

  18

  Lord Dawlish stood in the doorway of the outhouse, holding thebody of Eustace gingerly by the tail. It was a solemn moment.There was no room for doubt as to the completeness of theextinction of Lady Wetherby's pet.

  Dudley Pickering's bullet had done its lethal work. Eustace'sadventurous career was over. He was through.

  Elizabeth's mouth was trembling, and she looked very white in themoonlight. Being naturally soft-hearted, she deplored the tragedyfor its own sake; and she was also, though not lacking in courage,decidedly upset by the discovery that some person unknown had beenroaming her premises with a firearm.

  'Oh, Bill!' she said. Then: 'Poor little chap!' And then: 'Whocould have done it?'

  Lord Dawlish did not answer. His whole mind was occupied at themoment with the contemplation of the fact that she had called himBill. Then he realized that she had spoken three times andexpected a reply.

  'Who could have done it?'

  Bill pondered. Never a quick thinker, the question found himunprepared.

  'Some fellow, I expect,' he said at last brightly. 'Got in, don'tyou know, and then his pistol went off by accident.'

  'But what was he doing with a pistol?'

  Bill looked a little puzzled at this.

  'Why, he would have a pistol, wouldn't he? I thought everybodyhad over here.'

  Except for what he had been able to observe during the briefperiod of his present visit, Lord Dawlish's knowledge of theUnited States had been derived from the American plays which hehad seen in London, and in these chappies were producing revolversall the time. He had got the impression that a revolver was asmuch a part of the ordinary well-dressed man's equipment in theUnited States as a collar.

  'I think it was a burglar,' said Elizabeth. 'There have been a lotof burglaries down here this summer.'

  'Would a burglar burgle the outhouse? Rummy idea, rather, what?Not much sense in it. I think it must have been a tramp. I expecttramps are always popping about and nosing into all sorts ofextraordinary places, you know.'

  'He must have been standing quite close to us while we weretalking,' said Elizabeth, with a shiver.

  Bill looked about him. Everywhere was peace. No sinister soundscompeted with the croaking of the tree frogs. No alien figuresinfested the landscape. The only alien figure, that of MrPickering, was wedged into a bush, invisible to the naked eye.

  'He's gone now, at any rate,' he said. 'What are we going to do?'

  Elizabeth gave another shiver as she glanced hurriedly at thedeceased. After life's fitful fever Eustace slept well, but he wasnot looking his best.

  'With--it?' she said.

  'I say,' advised Bill, 'I shouldn't call him "it," don't you know.It sort of rubs it in. Why not "him"? I suppose we had better buryhim. Have you a spade anywhere handy?'

  'There isn't a spade on the place.'

  Bill looked thoughtful.

  'It takes weeks to make a hole with anything else, you know,' hesaid. 'When I was a kid a friend of mine bet me I wouldn't dig myway through to China with a pocket knife. It was an awful frost. Itried for a couple of days, and broke the knife and didn't getanywhere near China.' He laid the remains on the grass andsurveyed them meditatively. 'This is what fellows always run upagainst in the detective novels--What to Do With the Body. Theymanage the murder part of it all right, and then stub their toeson the body problem.'

  'I wish you wouldn't talk as if we had done a murder.'

  'I feel as if we had, don't you?'

  'Exactly.'

  'I read a story once where a fellow slugged somebody and meltedthe corpse down in a bath tub with sulphuric--'

  'Stop! You're making me sick!'

  'Only a suggestion, don't you know,' said Bill apologetically.

  'Well, suggest something else, then.'

  'How about leaving him on Lady Wetherby's doorstep? See what Imean--let them take him in with the morning milk? Or, if you wouldrather ring the bell and go away, and--you don't think much ofit?'

  'I simply haven't the nerve to do anything so risky.'

  'Oh, I would do it. There would be no need for you to come.'

  'I wouldn't dream of deserting you.'

  'That's awfully good of you.'

  'Besides, I'm not going to be left alone to-night until I can jumpinto my little white bed and pull the clothes over my head. I'mscared, I'm just boneless with fright. And I wouldn't go anywherenear Lady Wetherby's doorstep with it.'

  'Him.'

  'It's no use, I can't think of it as "him." It's no good asking meto.'

  Bill frowned thoughtfully.

  'I read a story once where two chappies wanted to get rid of abody. They put it inside a fellow's piano.'

  'You do seem to have read the most horrible sort of books.'

  'I rather like a bit of blood with my fiction,' said Bill. 'Whatabout this piano scheme I read about?'

  'People only have talking machines in these parts.'

  'I read a story--'

  'Let's try to forget the stories you've read. Suggest something ofyour own.'

  'Well, could we dissect the little chap?'

  'Dissect him?'

  'And bury him in the cellar, you know. Fellows do it to theirwives.'

  Elizabeth shuddered.

  'Try again,' she said.

  'Well, the only other thing I can think of is to take him into thewoods and leave him there. It's a pity we can't let Lady Wetherbyknow where he is; she seems rather keen on him. But I suppose themain point is to get rid of him.'

  'I know how we can do both. That's a good idea of yours about thewoods. They are part of Lady Wetherby's property. I used to wanderabout there in the spring when the house was empty. There's a sortof shack in the middle of them. I shouldn't think anybody everwent there--it's a deserted sort of place. We could leave himthere, and then--well, we might write Lady Wetherby a letter orsomething. We could think out that part afterward.'

  'It's the best thing we've thought of. You really want to come?'

  'If you attempt to leave here without me I shall scream. Let's bestarting.'

  Bill picked Eustace up by his convenient tail.

  'I read a story once,' he said, 'where a fellow was lugging acorpse through a wood, when suddenly--'

  'Stop right there,' said Elizabeth firmly.

  During the conversation just recorded Dudley Pickering had beenkeeping a watchful eye on Bill and Elizabeth from the interior ofa bush. His was not the ideal position for espionage, for he wastoo far off to hear what they said, and the light was too dim toenable him to see what it was that Bill was holding. It looked toMr Pickering like a sack or bag of some sort. As time went by hebecame convinced that it was a sack, limp and empty at present,but destined later to receive and bulge with what he believed wastechnically known as the swag. When the two objects of vigilanceconcluded their lengthy consultation, and moved off in thedirection of Lady Wetherby's woods, any doubts he may have had asto whether they were the criminals he had suspected them of beingwere dispersed. The whole thing worked out logically.

  The Man, having spied out the land in his two visits to LadyWetherby's house, was now about to break in. His accomplice wouldstand by with the sack. With a beating heart Mr Pickering grippedhis revolver and moved round in the shadow of the shrubbery tillhe came to the gate, when he was just in time to see the guiltycouple disappear into the woods. He followed them. He was glad toget on the move again. While he had been wedged into the bush,quite a lot of the bush had been wedged into him. Something sharphad pressed against the calf of his leg, and he had been pinchedin a number of tender places. And he was convinced that one moreof God's unpleasant creatures had got down the back of his neck.

  Dudley Pickering moved through the wood as snakily as he could.Nature had shaped him more for stability than for snakiness, buthe did his best. He tingled with the excitement of the chase, andendeavoured to creep through the undergrowth like one of thoseintelligent Indians of whom he had read so many years before inthe pages of
Mr Fenimore Cooper. In those days Dudley Pickeringhad not thought very highly of Fenimore Cooper, holding his workdeficient in serious and scientific interest; but now it seemed tohim that there had been something in the man after all, and heresolved to get some of his books and go over them again. Hewished he had read them more carefully at the time, for theydoubtless contained much information and many hints which wouldhave come in handy just now. He seemed, for example, to recallcharacters in them who had the knack of going through forestswithout letting a single twig crack beneath their feet. Probablythe author had told how this was done. In his unenlightened stateit was beyond Mr Pickering. The wood seemed carpeted with twigs.Whenever he stepped he trod on one, and whenever he trod on one itcracked beneath his feet. There were moments when he felt gloomilythat he might just as well be firing a machine-gun.

  Bill, meanwhile, Elizabeth following close behind him, wasploughing his way onward. From time to time he would turn toadminister some encouraging remark, for it had come home to him bynow that encouraging remarks were what she needed very much in thepresent crisis of her affairs. She was showing him a new andhitherto unsuspected side of her character. The Elizabeth whom hehad known--the valiant, self-reliant Elizabeth--had gone, leavingin her stead someone softer, more appealing, more approachable. Itwas this that was filling him with strange emotions as he led theway to their destination.

  He was becoming more and more conscious of a sense of being drawnvery near to Elizabeth, of a desire to soothe, comfort, and protecther. It was as if to-night he had discovered the missing key to apuzzle or the missing element in some chemical combination. Likemost big men, his mind was essentially a protective mind; weaknessdrew out the best that was in him. And it was only to-night thatElizabeth had given any sign of having any weakness in hercomposition. That clear vision which had come to him on his longwalk came again now, that vivid conviction that she was the onlygirl in the world for him.

  He was debating within himself the advisability of trying to findwords to express this sentiment, when Mr Pickering, the modernChingachgook, trod on another twig in the background and Elizabethstopped abruptly with a little cry.

  'What was that?' she demanded.

  Bill had heard a noise too. It was impossible to be within a dozenyards of Mr Pickering, when on the trail, and not hear a noise.The suspicion that someone was following them did not come to him,for he was a man rather of common sense than of imagination, andcommon sense was asking him bluntly why the deuce anybody shouldwant to tramp after them through a wood at that time of night. Hecaught the note of panic in Elizabeth's voice, and was soothingher.

  'It was just a branch breaking. You hear all sorts of rum noisesin a wood.'

  'I believe it's the man with the pistol following us!'

  'Nonsense. Why should he? Silly thing to do!' He spoke almostseverely.

  'Look!' cried Elizabeth.

  'What?'

  'I saw someone dodge behind that tree.'

  'You mustn't let yourself imagine things. Buck up!'

  'I can't buck up. I'm scared.'

  'Which tree did you think you saw someone dodge behind?'

  'That big one there.'

  'Well, listen: I'll go back and--'

  'If you leave me for an instant I shall die in agonies.' Shegulped. 'I never knew I was such a coward before. I'm just aworm.'

  'Nonsense. This sort of thing might frighten anyone. I read astory once--'

  'Don't!'

  Bill found that his heart had suddenly begun to beat withunaccustomed rapidity. The desire to soothe, comfort, and protectElizabeth became the immediate ambition of his life. It was verydark where they stood. The moonlight, which fell in little patchesround them, did not penetrate the thicket which they had entered.He could hardly see her. He was merely aware of her as a presence.An excellent idea occurred to him.

  'Hold my hand,' he said.

  It was what he would have said to a frightened child, and there wasmuch of the frightened child about Elizabeth then. The Eustace mysteryhad given her a shock which subsequent events had done nothing todispel, and she had lost that jauntiness and self-confidence which washer natural armour against the more ordinary happenings of life.

  Something small and soft slid gratefully into his palm, and therewas silence for a space. Bill said nothing. Elizabeth saidnothing. And Mr Pickering had stopped treading on twigs. Thefaintest of night breezes ruffled the tree-tops above them. Themoonbeams filtered through the branches. He held her hand tightly.

  'Better?'

  'Much.'

  The breeze died away. Not a leaf stirred. The wood was very still.Somewhere on a bough a bird moved drowsily 'All right?'

  'Yes.'

  And then something happened--something shattering, disintegrating.It was only a pheasant, but it sounded like the end of the world.It rose at their feet with a rattle that filled the universe, andfor a moment all was black confusion. And when that moment hadpassed it became apparent to Bill that his arm was roundElizabeth, that she was sobbing helplessly, and that he waskissing her. Somebody was talking very rapidly in a low voice.

  He found that it was himself.

  'Elizabeth!'

  There was something wonderful about the name, a sort of music.This was odd, because the name, as a name, was far from being afavourite of his. Until that moment childish associations hadprejudiced him against it. It had been inextricably involved inhis mind with an atmosphere of stuffy schoolrooms and generalmisery, for it had been his misfortune that his budding mind wasconstitutionally incapable of remembering who had been Queen ofEngland at the time of the Spanish Armada--a fact that had causeda good deal of friction with a rather sharp-tempered governess.But now it seemed the only possible name for a girl to have, theonly label that could even remotely suggest those feminine charmswhich he found in this girl beside him. There was poetry in everysyllable of it. It was like one of those deep chords which fillthe hearer with vague yearnings for strange and beautiful things.He asked for nothing better than to stand here repeating it.

  'Elizabeth!'

  'Bill, dear!'

  That sounded good too. There was music in 'Bill' when properlyspoken. The reason why all the other Bills in the world had gotthe impression that it was a prosaic sort of name was that therewas only one girl in existence capable of speaking it properly,and she was not for them.

  'Bill, are you really fond of me?'

  'Fond of you!'

  She gave a sigh. 'You're so splendid!'

  Bill was staggered. These were strange words. He had never thoughtmuch of himself. He had always looked on himself as rather achump--well-meaning, perhaps, but an awful ass. It seemedincredible that any one--and Elizabeth of all people--could lookon him as splendid.

  And yet the very fact that she had said it gave it a plausiblesort of sound. It shook his convictions. Splendid! Was he? ByJove, perhaps he was, what? Rum idea, but it grew on a chap.Filled with a novel feeling of exaltation, he kissed Elizabetheleven times in rapid succession.

  He felt devilish fit. He would have liked to run a mile or two andjump a few gates. He wished five or six starving beggars wouldcome along; it would be pleasant to give the poor blighters money.It was too much to expect at that time of night, of course, but itwould be rather jolly if Jess Willard would roll up and try topick a quarrel. He would show him something. He felt grand andstrong and full of beans. What a ripping thing life was when youcame to think of it.

  'This,' he said, 'is perfectly extraordinary!' And time stoodstill.

  A sense of something incongruous jarred upon Bill. Somethingseemed to be interfering with the supreme romance of that goldenmoment. It baffled him at first. Then he realized that he wasstill holding Eustace by the tail.

  Dudley Pickering had watched these proceedings--as well as thefact that it was extremely dark and that he was endeavouring tohide a portly form behind a slender bush would permit him--with asense of bewilderment. A comic artist drawing Mr Pickering at thatmoment would no doubt have placed abo
ve his head one of thoselarge marks of interrogation which lend vigour and snap to moderncomic art. Certainly such a mark of interrogation would havesummed up his feelings exactly. Of what was taking place he hadnot the remotest notion. All he knew was that for some inexplicablereason his quarry had come to a halt and seemed to have settled downfor an indefinite stay. Voices came to him in an indistinguishablemurmur, intensely irritating to a conscientious tracker. One ofFenimore Cooper's Indians--notably Chingachgook, if, which seemedincredible, that was really the man's name--would have crept upwithout a sound and heard what was being said and got in on theground floor of whatever plot was being hatched. But experiencehad taught Mr Pickering that, superior as he was to Chingachgookand his friends in many ways, as a creeper he was not in their class.He weighed thirty or forty pounds more than a first-class creepershould. Besides, creeping is like golf. You can't take it up in themiddle forties and expect to compete with those who have been at itfrom infancy.

  He had resigned himself to an all-night vigil behind the bush,when to his great delight he perceived that things had begun tomove again. There was a rustling of feet in the undergrowth, andhe could just see two indistinct forms making their way among thebushes. He came out of his hiding place and followed stealthily,or as stealthily as the fact that he had not even taken acorrespondence course in creeping allowed. And profiting byearlier mistakes, he did succeed in making far less noise thanbefore. In place of his former somewhat elephantine method ofprogression he adopted a species of shuffle which had excellentresults, for it enabled him to brush twigs away instead ofstepping flatfootedly on them. The new method was slow, but it hadno other disadvantages.

  Because it was slow, Mr Pickering was obliged to follow his preyalmost entirely by ear. It was easy at first, for they seemed tobe hurrying on regardless of noise. Then unexpectedly the soundsof their passage ceased.

  He halted. In his boyish way the first thing he thought was thatit was an ambush. He had a vision of that large man suspecting hispresence and lying in wait for him with a revolver. This was not acomforting thought. Of course, if a man is going to fire arevolver at you it makes little difference whether he is a giantor a pygmy, but Mr Pickering was in no frame of mind for nicereasoning. It was the thought of Bill's physique which kept himstanding there irresolute.

  What would Chingachgook--assuming, for purposes of argument, thatany sane godfather could really have given a helpless child a namelike that--have done? He would, Mr Pickering considered, aftergiving the matter his earnest attention, have made a _detour_and outflanked the enemy. An excellent solution of the difficulty.Mr Pickering turned to the left and began to advance circuitously,with the result that, before he knew what he was doing, he cameout into a clearing and understood the meaning of the suddensilence which had perplexed him. Footsteps made no sound on thismossy turf.

  He knew where he was now; the clearing was familiar. This waswhere Lord Wetherby's shack-studio stood; and there it was, rightin front of him, black and clear in the moonlight. And the twodark figures were going into it.

  Mr Pickering retreated into the shelter of the bushes and musedupon this thing. It seemed to him that for centuries he had beendoing nothing but retreat into bushes for this purpose. Hisperplexity had returned. He could imagine no reason why burglarsshould want to visit Lord Wetherby's studio. He had taken it forgranted, when he had tracked them to the clearing, that they wereon their way to the house, which was quite close to the shack,separated from it only by a thin belt of trees and a lawn.

  They had certainly gone in. He had seen them with his own eyes--firstthe man, then very close behind him, apparently holding to his coat,the girl. But why?

  Creep up and watch them? Would Chingachgook have taken a risk likethat? Hardly, unless insured with some good company. Then what? Hewas still undecided when he perceived the objects of his attentionemerging. He backed a little farther into the bushes.

  They stood for an instant, listening apparently. The man no longercarried the sack. They exchanged a few inaudible words. Then theycrossed the clearing and entered the wood a few yards to hisright. He could hear the crackling of their footsteps diminishingin the direction of the road.

  A devouring curiosity seized upon Mr Pickering. He wanted, morethan he had wanted almost anything before in his life, to find outwhat the dickens they had been up to in there. He listened. Thefootsteps were no longer audible. He ran across the clearing andinto the shack. It was then that he discovered that he had nomatches.

  This needless infliction, coming upon him at the crisis of anadventurous night, infuriated Mr Pickering. He swore softly. Hegroped round the walls for an electric-light switch, but the shackhad no electric-light switch. When there was need to illuminate itan oil lamp performed the duty. This occurred to Mr Pickeringafter he had been round the place three times, and he ceased togrope for a switch and began to seek for a match-box. He was stillseeking it when he was frozen in his tracks by the sound offootsteps, muffled but by their nearness audible, just outside thedoor. He pulled out his pistol, which he had replaced in hispocket, backed against the wall, and stood there prepared to sellhis life dearly.

  The door opened.

  One reads of desperate experiences ageing people in a singlenight. His present predicament aged Mr Pickering in a singleminute. In the brief interval of time between the opening of thedoor and the moment when a voice outside began to speak he becamea full thirty years older. His boyish ardour slipped from him, andhe was once more the Dudley Pickering whom the world knew, thestaid and respectable middle-aged man of affairs, who would havegiven a million dollars not to have got himself mixed up in thisdeplorable business.

  And then the voice spoke.

  'I'll light the lamp,' it said; and with an overpowering feelingof relief Mr Pickering recognized it as Lord Wetherby's. A momentlater the temperamental peer's dapper figure became visible insilhouette against a background of pale light.

  'Ah-hum!' said Mr Pickering.

  The effect on Lord Wetherby was remarkable. To hear some one clearhis throat at the back of a dark room, where there shouldrightfully be no throat to be cleared, would cause even your manof stolid habit a passing thrill. The thing got right in amongLord Wetherby's highly sensitive ganglions like an earthquake. Heuttered a strangled cry, then dashed out and slammed the doorbehind him.

  'There's someone in there!'

  Lady Wetherby's tranquil voice made itself heard.

  'Nonsense; who could be in there?'

  'I heard him, I tell you. He growled at me!'

  It seemed to Mr Pickering that the time had come to relieve themental distress which he was causing his host. He raised hisvoice.

  'It's all right!' he called.

  'There!' said Lord Wetherby.

  'Who's that?' asked Lady Wetherby, through the door.

  'It's all right. It's me--Pickering.'

  The door was opened a few inches by a cautious hand.

  'Is that you, Pickering?'

  'Yes. It's all right.'

  'Don't keep saying it's all right,' said Lord Wetherby, irritably.'It isn't all right. What do you mean by hiding in the dark andpopping out and barking at a man? You made me bite my tongue. I'venever had such a shock in my life.'

  Mr Pickering left his lair and came out into the open. LordWetherby was looking aggrieved, Lady Wetherby peacefullyinquisitive. For the first time Mr Pickering discovered thatClaire was present. She was standing behind Lady Wetherby with afloating white something over her head, looking very beautiful.

  'For the love of Mike!' said Lady Wetherby.

  Mr Pickering became aware that he was still holding the revolver.

  'Oh, ah!' he said, and pocketed the weapon.

  'Barking at people!' muttered Lord Wetherby in a querulousundertone.

  'What on earth are you doing, Dudley?' said Claire.

  There was a note in her voice which both puzzled and pained MrPickering, a note that seemed to suggest that she found herself inimperfect sympathy with him.
Her expression deepened thesuggestion. It was a cold expression, unfriendly, as if it was notso keen a pleasure to Claire to look at him as it should be for agirl to look at the man whom she is engaged to marry. He hadnoticed the same note in her voice and the same hostile look inher eye earlier in the evening. He had found her alone, reading aletter which, as the stamp on the envelope showed, had come fromEngland. She had seemed so upset that he had asked her if itcontained bad news, and she had replied in the negative with somuch irritation that he had desisted from inquiries. But his ownidea was that she had had bad news from home. Mr Pickering stillclung to his early impression that her little brother Percy wasconsumptive, and he thought the child must have taken a turn forthe worse. It was odd that she should have looked and spoken likethat then, and it was odd that she should look and speak like thatnow. He had been vaguely disturbed then and he was vaguelydisturbed now. He had the feeling that all was not well.

  'Yes,' said Lady Wetherby. 'What on earth are you doing, Dudley?'

  'Popping out!' grumbled Lord Wetherby.

  'We came here to see Algie's picture, which has got somethingwrong with its eyes apparently, and we find you hiding in the darkwith a gun. What's the idea?'

  'It's a long story,' said Mr Pickering.

  'We have the night before us,' said Lady Wetherby.

  'You remember The Man--the fellow I found looking in at thewindow, The Man who said he knew Claire?'

  'You've got that man on the brain, Dudley. What's he been doing toyou now?'

  'I tracked him here.'

  'Tracked him? Where from?'

  'From that bee-farm place where he's living. He and that girl youspoke of went into these woods. I thought they were making for thehouse, but they went into the shack.'

  'What did they do then?' asked Lady Wetherby.

  'They came out again.'

  'Why?'

  'That's what I was trying to find out.'

  Lord Wetherby uttered an exclamation.

  'By Jove!' There was apprehension in his voice, but mingled withit a certain pleased surprise. 'Perhaps they were after mypicture. I'll light the lamp. Good Lord, picturethieves--Romneys--missing Gainsboroughs--' His voice trailed offas he found the lamp and lit it. Relief and disappointment werenicely blended in his next words: 'No, it's still there.'

  The soft light of the lamp filled the studio.

  'Well, that's a comfort,' said Lady Wetherby, sauntering in. 'Wecouldn't afford to lose--Oh!'

  Lord Wetherby spun round as her scream burst upon his alreadytortured nerve centres. Lady Wetherby was kneeling on the floor.Claire hurried in.

  'What is it, Polly?'

  Lady Wetherby rose to her feet, and pointed. Her face had lost itslook of patient amusement. It was hard and set. She eyed MrPickering in a menacing way.

  'Look!'

  Claire followed her finger.

  'Good gracious! It's Eustace!'

  'Shot!'

  She was looking intently at Mr Pickering. 'Well, Dudley,' shesaid, coldly, 'what about it?'

  Mr Pickering found that they were all looking at him--LadyWetherby with glittering eyes, Claire with cool scorn, LordWetherby with a horror which he seemed to have achieved withsomething of an effort.

  'Well!' said Claire.

  'What about it, Dudley?' said Lady Wetherby.

  'I must say, Pickering,' said Lord Wetherby, 'much as I dislikedthe animal, it's a bit thick!'

  Mr Pickering recoiled from their accusing gaze.

  'Good heavens! Do you think I did it?'

  In the midst of his anguish there flashed across his mind therecollection of having seen just this sort of situation in amoving picture, and of having thought it far-fetched.

  Lady Wetherby's good-tempered mouth, far from good-tempered now,curled in a devastating sneer. She was looking at him as Claire,in the old days when they had toured England together in roadcompanies, had sometimes seen her look at recalcitrant landladies.The landladies, without exception, had wilted beneath that gaze,and Mr Pickering wilted now.

  'But--but--but--' was all he could contrive to say.

  'Why should we think you did it?' said Lady Wetherby, bitterly.'You had a grudge against the poor brute for biting you. We findyou hiding here with a pistol and a story about burglars which aninfant couldn't swallow. I suppose you thought that, if youplanted the poor creature's body here, it would be up to Algie toget rid of it, and that if he were found with it I should thinkthat it was he who had killed the animal.'

  The look of horror which Lord Wetherby had managed to assumebecame genuine at these words. The gratitude which he had beenfeeling towards Mr Pickering for having removed one of the chieftrials of his existence vanished.

  'Great Scot!' he cried. 'So that was the game, was it?'

  Mr Pickering struggled for speech. This was a nightmare.

  'But I didn't! I didn't! I didn't! I tell you I hadn't theremotest notion the creature was there.'

  'Oh, come, Pickering!' said Lord Wetherby. 'Come, come, come!'

  Mr Pickering found that his accusers were ebbing away. LadyWetherby had gone. Claire had gone. Only Lord Wetherby remained,looking at him like a pained groom. He dashed from the place andfollowed his hostess, speaking incoherently of burglars,outhouses, and misunderstandings. He even mentioned Chingachgook.But Lady Wetherby would not listen. Nobody would listen.

  He found Lord Wetherby at his side, evidently prepared to godeeper into the subject. Lord Wetherby was looking now like agroom whose favourite horse has kicked him in the stomach.

  'Wouldn't have thought it of you, Pickering,' said Lord Wetherby.Mr Pickering found no words. 'Wouldn't, honestly. Low trick!'

  'But I tell you--'

  'Devilish low trick!' repeated Lord Wetherby, with a shake of thehead. 'Laws of hospitality--eaten our bread and salt, what!--allthat sort of thing--kill valuable monkey--not done, you know--low,very low!'

  And he followed his wife, now in full retreat, with scorn andrepulsion written in her very walk.

  'Mr Pickering!'

  It was Claire. She stood there, holding something towards him,something that glittered in the moonlight. Her voice was hard, andthe expression on her face suggested that in her estimation he wasa particularly low-grade worm, one of the submerged tenth of theworm world.

  'Eh?' said Mr Pickering, dazedly.

  He looked at what she had in her hand, but it conveyed nothing tohis overwrought mind.

  'Take it!'

  'Eh?'

  Claire stamped.

  'Very well,' she said.

  She flung something on the ground before him--a small, sparklingobject. Then she swept away, his eyes following her, and was lostin the darkness of the trees. Mechanically Mr Pickering stooped topick up what she had let fall. He recognized it now. It was herengagement ring.