Lord Peter views the body (2024)

THE STORIES

THE ABOMINABLE HISTORY OF THE MAN WITH COPPER FINGERS

The Egotists' Club is one of the most genial places in London. It is aplace to which you may go when you want to tell that odd dream you hadlast night, or to announce what a good dentist you have discovered.You can write letters there if you like, and have the temperament of aJane Austen, for there is no silence room, and it would be a breach ofclub manners to appear busy or absorbed when another member addressesyou. You must not mention golf or fish, however, and, if the Hon.Freddy Arbuthnot's motion is carried at the next committee meeting(and opinion so far appears very favourable), you will not be allowedto mention wireless either. As Lord Peter Wimsey said when the matterwas mooted the other day in the smoking-room, those are things you cantalk about anywhere. Otherwise the club is not specially exclusive.Nobody is ineligible per se, except strong, silent men. Nominees are,however, required to pass certain tests, whose nature is sufficientlyindicated by the fact that a certain distinguished explorer came togrief through accepting, and smoking, a powerful Trichinopoly cigar asan accompaniment to a '63 port. On the other hand, dear old Sir RogerBunt (the coster millionaire who won the £20,000 ballot offered by theSunday Shriek, and used it to found his immense catering businessin the Midlands) was highly commended and unanimously elected afterdeclaring frankly that beer and a pipe were all he really cared for inthat way. As Lord Peter said again: "Nobody minds coarseness but onemust draw the line at cruelty."

On this particular evening, Masterman (the cubist poet) had broughta guest with him, a man named Varden. Varden had started life as aprofessional athlete, but a strained heart had obliged him to cutshort a brilliant career, and turn his handsome face and remarkablybeautiful body to account in the service of the cinema screen. He hadcome to London from Los Angeles to stimulate publicity for his greatnew film, Marathon, and turned out to be quite a pleasant, unspoiledperson—greatly to the relief of the club, since Masterman's guestswere apt to be something of a toss-up.

There were only eight men, including Varden, in the brown room thatevening. This, with its panelled walls, shaded lamps, and heavyblue curtains was perhaps the cosiest and pleasantest of the smallsmoking-rooms, of which the club possessed half a dozen or so. Theconversation had begun quite casually by Armstrong's relating a curiouslittle incident which he had witnessed that afternoon at the TempleStation, and Bayes had gone on to say that that was nothing to thereally very odd thing which had happened to him, personally, in athick fog one night in the Euston Road.

Masterman said that the more secluded London squares teemed withsubjects for a writer, and instanced his own singular encounter with aweeping woman and a dead monkey, and then Judson took up the tale andnarrated how, in a lonely suburb, late at night, he had come upon thedead body of a woman stretched on the pavement with a knife in her sideand a policeman standing motionless near by. He had asked if he coulddo anything, but the policeman had only said, "I wouldn't interfereif I was you, sir; she deserved what she got." Judson said he hadnot been able to get the incident out of his mind, and then Pettifertold them of a queer case in his own medical practice, when a totallyunknown man had led him to a house in Bloomsbury where there was awoman suffering from strychnine poisoning. This man had helped him inthe most intelligent manner all night, and, when the patient was outof danger, had walked straight out of the house and never reappeared;the odd thing being that, when he (Pettifer) questioned the woman, sheanswered in great surprise that she had never seen the man in her lifeand had taken him to be Pettifer's assistant.

"That reminds me," said Varden, "of something still stranger thathappened to me once in New York—I've never been able to make outwhether it was a madman or a practical joke, or whether I really had avery narrow shave."

This sounded promising, and the guest was urged to go on with his story.

"Well, it really started ages ago," said the actor, "seven yearsit must have been—just before America came into the war. I wastwenty-five at the time, and had been in the film business a littleover two years. There was a man called Eric P. Loder, pretty well knownin New York at that period, who would have been a very fine sculptor ifhe hadn't had more money than was good for him, or so I understood fromthe people who go in for that kind of thing. He used to exhibit a gooddeal and had a lot of one-man shows of his stuff to which the highbrowpeople went—he did a good many bronzes, I believe. Perhaps you knowabout him, Masterman?"

"I've never seen any of his things," said the poet, "but I remembersome photographs in The Art of To-Morrow. Clever, but ratheroverripe. Didn't he go in for a lot of that chryselephantine stuff?Just to show he could afford to pay for the materials, I suppose."

"Yes, that sounds very like him."

"Of course—and he did a very slick and very ugly realistic groupcalled Lucina, and had the impudence to have it cast in solid gold andstood in his front hall."

"Oh, that thing! Yes—simply beastly I thought it, but then I nevercould see anything artistic in the idea. Realism, I suppose you'd callit. I like a picture or a statue to make you feel good, or what's itthere for? Still, there was something very attractive about Loder."

"How did you come across him?"

"Oh, yes. Well, he saw me in that little picture of mine, Apollo comesto New York—perhaps you remember it. It was my first star part. Abouta statue that's brought to life—one of the old gods, you know—and howhe gets on in a modern city. Dear old Reubenssohn produced it. Now,there was a man who could put a thing through with consummate artistry.You couldn't find an atom of offence from beginning to end, it was allso tasteful, though in the first part one didn't have anything to wearexcept a sort of scarf—taken from the classical statue, you know."

"The Belvedere?"

"I dare say. Well. Loder wrote to me, and said as a sculptor he wasinterested in me, because I was a good shape and so on, and wouldI come and pay him a visit in New York when I was free. So I foundout about Loder, and decided it would be good publicity, and when mycontract was up, and I had a bit of time to fill in, I went up east andcalled on him. He was very decent to me, and asked me to stay a fewweeks with him while I was looking around.

"He had a magnificent great house about five miles out of the city,crammed full of pictures and antiques and so on. He was somewherebetween thirty-five and forty, I should think, dark and smooth, andvery quick and lively in his movements. He talked very well; seemedto have been everywhere and have seen everything and not to have anytoo good an opinion of anybody. You could sit and listen to him forhours; he'd got anecdotes about everybody, from the Pope to old PhineasE. Groot of the Chicago Ring. The only kind of story I didn't careabout hearing from him was the improper sort. Not that I don't enjoyan after-dinner story—no, sir, I wouldn't like you to think I was aprig—but he'd tell it with his eye upon you as if he suspected you ofhaving something to do with it. I've known women do that, and I've seenmen do it to women and seen the women squirm, but he was the only manthat's ever given me that feeling. Still, apart from that, Loder wasthe most fascinating fellow I've ever known. And, as I say, his housesurely was beautiful, and he kept a first-class table.

"He liked to have everything of the best. There was his mistress, MariaMorano. I don't think I've ever seen anything to touch her, and whenyou work for the screen you're apt to have a pretty exacting standardof female beauty. She was one of those big, slow, beautifully movingcreatures, very placid, with a slow, wide smile. We don't grow them inthe States. She'd come from the South—had been a cabaret dancer hesaid, and she didn't contradict him. He was very proud of her, and sheseemed to be devoted to him in her own fashion. He'd show her off inthe studio with nothing on but a fig-leaf or so—stand her up besideone of the figures he was always doing of her, and compare them pointby point. There was literally only one half inch of her, it seemed,that wasn't absolutely perfect from the sculptor's point of view—thesecond toe of her left foot was shorter than the big toe. He used tocorrect it, of course, in the statues. She'd listen to it all witha good-natured smile, sort of vaguely flattered, you know. Though Ithink the poor girl sometimes got tired of being gloated over that way.She'd sometimes hunt me out and confide to me that what she had alwayshoped for was to run a restaurant of her own, with a cabaret show anda great many cooks with white aprons, and lots of polished electriccookers. 'And then I would marry,' she'd say, 'and have four sons andone daughter,' and she told me all the names she had chosen for thefamily. I thought it was rather pathetic. Loder came in at the end ofone of these conversations. He had a sort of a grin on, so I dare sayhe'd overheard. I don't suppose he attached much importance to it,which shows that he never really understood the girl. I don't think heever imagined any woman would chuck up the sort of life he'd accustomedher to, and if he was a bit possessive in his manner, at least he nevergave her a rival. For all his talk and his ugly statues, she'd got him,and she knew it.

"I stayed there getting on for a month altogether, having a thunderinggood time. On two occasions Loder had an art spasm, and shut himself upin his studio to work and wouldn't let anybody in for several days onend. He was rather given to that sort of stunt, and when it was over wewould have a party, and all Loder's friends and hangers-on would cometo have a look at the work of art. He was doing a figure of some nymphor goddess, I fancy, to be cast in silver, and Maria used to go alongand sit for him. Apart from those times, he went about everywhere, andwe saw all there was to be seen.

"I was fairly annoyed, I admit, when it came to an end. War wasdeclared, and I'd made up my mind to join up when that happened. Myheart put me out of the running for trench service, but I counted ongetting some sort of a job, with perseverance, so I packed up and wentoff.

"I wouldn't have believed Loder would have been so genuinely sorry tosay good-bye to me. He said over and over again that we'd meet againsoon. However, I did get a job with the hospital people, and was sentover to Europe, and it wasn't till 1920 that I saw Loder again.

"He'd written to me before, but I'd had two big pictures to make in'19, and it couldn't be done. However, in '20 I found myself back inNew York, doing publicity for The Passion Streak, and got a note fromLoder begging me to stay with him, and saying he wanted me to sit forhim. Well, that was advertisem*nt that he'd pay for himself, you know,so I agreed. I had accepted an engagement to go out with MystofilmsLtd. in Jake of Dead Man's Bush—the dwarfmen picture, you know,taken on the spot among the Australian bushmen. I wired them that Iwould join them at Sydney the third week in April, and took my bags outto Loder's.

"Loder greeted me very cordially, though I thought he looked older thanwhen I last saw him. He had certainly grown more nervous in his manner.He was—how shall I describe it?—more intense—more real, in a way.He brought out his pet cynicisms as if he thoroughly meant them, andmore and more with that air of getting at you personally. I used tothink his disbelief in everything was a kind of artistic pose, but Ibegan to feel I had done him an injustice. He was really unhappy, Icould see that quite well, and soon I discovered the reason. As we weredriving out in the car I asked after Maria.

"'She has left me,' he said.

"Well, now, you know, that really surprised me. Honestly, I hadn'tthought the girl had that much initiative. 'Why,' I said, 'has she goneand set up in that restaurant of her own she wanted so much?'

"'Oh! she talked to you about restaurants, did she?' said Loder. 'Isuppose you are one of the men that women tell things to. No. She madea fool of herself. She's gone.'

"I didn't quite know what to say. He was so obviously hurt in hisvanity, you know, as well as in his feelings. I muttered the usualthings, and added that it must be a great loss to his work as well asin other ways. He said it was.

"I asked him when it had happened and whether he'd finished the nymphhe was working on before I left. He said, 'Oh, yes, he'd finished thatand done another—something pretty original, which I should like.'

"Well, we got to the house and dined, and Loder told me he was goingto Europe shortly, a few days after I left myself, in fact. The nymphstood in the dining-room, in a special niche let into the wall. Itreally was a beautiful thing, not so showy as most of Loder's work,and a wonderful likeness of Maria. Loder put me opposite it, so that Icould see it during dinner, and, really, I could hardly take my eyesoff it. He seemed very proud of it, and kept on telling me over andover again how glad he was that I liked it. It struck me that he wasfalling into a trick of repeating himself.

"We went into the smoking-room after dinner. He'd had it rearranged,and the first thing that caught one's eye was a big settee drawnbefore the fire. It stood about a couple of feet from the ground,and consisted of a base made like a Roman couch, with cushions anda highish back, all made of oak with a silver inlay, and on top ofthis, forming the actual seat one sat on, if you follow me, there wasa great silver figure of a nude woman, fully life-size, lying withher head back and her arms extended along the sides of the couch. Afew big loose cushions made it possible to use the thing as an actualsettee, though I must say it never was really comfortable to sit onrespectably. As a stage prop. for registering dissipation it wouldhave been excellent, but to see Loder sprawling over it by his ownfireside gave me a kind of shock. He seemed very much attached to it,though.

"'I told you,' he said, 'that it was something original.'

"Then I looked more closely at it, and saw that the figure actually wasMaria's, though the face was rather sketchily done, if you understandwhat I mean. I suppose he thought a bolder treatment more suited to apiece of furniture.

"But I did begin to think Loder a trifle degenerate when I saw thatcouch. And in the fortnight that followed I grew more and moreuncomfortable with him. That personal manner of his grew more markedevery day, and sometimes, while I was giving him sittings, he wouldsit there and tell one of the most beastly things, with his eyes fixedon one in the nastiest way, just to see how one would take it. Upon myword, though he certainly did me uncommonly well, I began to feel I'dbe more at ease among the bushmen.

"Well, now I come to the odd thing."

Everybody sat up and listened a little more eagerly.

"It was the evening before I had to leave New York," went on Varden. "Iwas sitting——"

Here somebody opened the door of the brown room, to be greeted by awarning sign from Bayes. The intruder sank obscurely into a large chairand mixed himself a whisky with extreme care not to disturb the speaker.

"I was sitting in the smoking-room," continued Varden, "waiting forLoder to come in. I had the house to myself, for Loder had given theservants leave to go to some show or lecture or other, and he himselfwas getting his things together for his European trip and had had tokeep an appointment with his man of business. I must have been verynearly asleep, because it was dusk when I came to with a start and sawa young man quite close to me.

"He wasn't at all like a housebreaker, and still less like a ghost. Hewas, I might almost say, exceptionally ordinary-looking. He was dressedin a grey English suit, with a fawn overcoat on his arm, and his softhat and stick in his hand. He had sleek, pale hair, and one of thoserather stupid faces, with a long nose and a monocle. I stared at him,for I knew the front door was locked, but before I could get my witstogether he spoke. He had a curious, hesitating, husky voice and astrong English accent. He said, surprisingly:

"'Are you Mr. Varden?'

"'You have the advantage of me,' I said.

"He said, 'Please excuse my butting in; I know it looks like badmanners, but you'd better clear out of this place very quickly, don'tyou know.'

"'What the hell do you mean?' I said.

"He said, 'I don't mean it in any impertinent way, but you must realisethat Loder's never forgiven you, and I'm afraid he means to make youinto a hat-stand or an electric-light fitting, or something of thatsort.'

"My God! I can tell you I felt queer. It was such a quiet voice, andhis manners were perfect, and yet the words were quite meaningless!I remembered that madmen are supposed to be extra strong, and edgedtowards the bell—and then it came over me with rather a chill that Iwas alone in the house.

"'How did you get here?' I asked, putting a bold face on it.

"'I'm afraid I picked the lock,' he said, as casually as though hewere apologising for not having a card about him. 'I couldn't be sureLoder hadn't come back. But I do really think you had better get out asquickly as possible.'

"'See here,' I said, 'who are you and what the hell are you driving at?What do you mean about Loder never forgiving me? Forgiving me what?'

"'Why,' he said, 'about—you will pardon me prancing in on yourprivate affairs, won't you—about Maria Morano.'

"'What about her, in the devil's name?' I cried. 'What do you knowabout her, anyway? She went off while I was at the war. What's it to dowith me?'

"'Oh!' said the very odd young man, 'I beg your pardon. Perhaps I havebeen relying too much on Loder's judgment. Damned foolish; but thepossibility of his being mistaken did not occur to me. He fancies youwere Maria Morano's lover when you were here last time.'

"'Maria's lover?' I said. 'Preposterous! She went off with her man,whoever he was. He must know she didn't go with me.'

"'Maria never left the house,' said the young man, 'and if you don'tget out of it this moment, I won't answer for your ever leaving,either.'

"'In God's name,' I cried, exasperated, 'what do you mean?'

"The man turned and threw the blue cushions off the foot of the silvercouch.

"'Have you ever examined the toes of this?' he asked.

"'Not particularly,' I said, more and more astonished. 'Why should I?'

"'Did you ever know Loder make any figure of her but this with thatshort toe on the left foot?' he went on.

"Well, I did take a look at it then, and saw it was as he said—theleft foot had a short second toe.

"'So it is,' I said, 'but, after all, why not?'

"'Why not, indeed?' said the young man. 'Wouldn't you like to see why,of all the figures Loder made of Maria Morano, this is the only onethat has the feet of the living woman?'

"He picked up the poker.

"'Look!' he said.

"With a lot more strength than I should have expected from him,he brought the head of the poker down with a heavy crack on thesilver couch. It struck one of the arms of the figure neatly at theelbow-joint, smashing a jagged hole in the silver. He wrenched at thearm and brought it away. It was hollow, and, as I am alive, I tell youthere was a long, dry arm-bone inside it!"

Varden paused, and put away a good mouthful of whisky.

"Well?" cried several breathless voices.

"Well," said Varden, "I'm not ashamed to say I went out of that houselike an old buck-rabbit that hears the man with the gun. There was acar standing just outside, and the driver opened the door. I tumbledin, and then it came over me that the whole thing might be a trap, andI tumbled out again and ran till I reached the trolley-cars. But Ifound my bags at the station next day, duly registered for Vancouver.

"When I pulled myself together I did rather wonder what Loder wasthinking about my disappearance, but I could no more have gone backinto that horrible house than I could have taken poison. I left forVancouver next morning, and from that day to this I never saw either ofthose men again. I've still not the faintest idea who the fair man was,or what became of him, but I heard in a round-about way that Loder wasdead—in some kind of an accident, I fancy."

There was a pause. Then:

"It's a damned good story, Mr. Varden," said Armstrong—he was adabbler in various kinds of handiwork, and was, indeed, chieflyresponsible for Mr. Arbuthnot's motion to ban wireless—"but are yousuggesting there was a complete skeleton inside that silver casting?Do you mean Loder put it into the core of the mould when the castingwas done? It would be awfully difficult and dangerous—the slightestaccident would have put him at the mercy of his workmen. And thatstatue must have been considerably over life-size to allow of theskeleton being well covered."

"Mr. Varden has unintentionally misled you, Armstrong," said a quiet,husky voice suddenly from the shadow behind Varden's chair. "The figurewas not silver, but electro-plated on a copper base deposited directon the body. The lady was Sheffield-plated, in fact. I fancy thesoft parts of her must have been digested away with pepsin, or somepreparation of the kind, after the process was complete, but I can't bepositive about that."

"Hullo, Wimsey," said Armstrong, "was that you came in just now? Andwhy this confident pronouncement?"

The effect of Wimsey's voice on Varden had been extraordinary. He hadleapt to his feet, and turned the lamp so as to light up Wimsey's face.

"Good evening, Mr. Varden," said Lord Peter. "I'm delighted to meet youagain and to apologise for my unceremonious behaviour on the occasionof our last encounter."

Varden took the proffered hand, but was speechless.

"D'you mean to say, you mad mystery-monger, that you were Varden'sGreat Unknown?" demanded Bayes. "Ah, well," he added rudely, "we mighthave guessed it from his vivid description."

"Well, since you're here," said Smith-Hartington, the Morning Yellman, "I think you ought to come across with the rest of the story."

"Was it just a joke?" asked Judson.

"Of course not," interrupted Pettifer, before Lord Peter had time toreply. "Why should it be? Wimsey's seen enough queer things not to haveto waste his time inventing them."

"That's true enough," said Bayes. "Comes of having deductive powers andall that sort of thing, and always sticking one's nose into things thatare better not investigated."

"That's all very well, Bayes," said his lordship, "but if I hadn't justmentioned the matter to Mr. Varden that evening, where would he be?"

"Ah, where? That's exactly what we want to know," demandedSmith-Hartington. "Come on, Wimsey, no shirking; we must have the tale."

"And the whole tale," added Pettifer.

"And nothing but the tale," said Armstrong, dexterously whisking awaythe whisky-bottle and the cigars from under Lord Peter's nose. "Get onwith it, old son. Not a smoke do you smoke and not a sup do you siptill Burd Ellen is set free."

"Brute!" said his lordship plaintively. "As a matter of fact,"he went on, with a change of tone, "it's not really a story Iwant to get about. It might land me in a very unpleasant sort ofposition—manslaughter probably, and murder possibly."

"Gosh!" said Bayes.

"That's all right," said Armstrong, "nobody's going to talk. We can'tafford to lose you from the club, you know. Smith-Hartington will haveto control his passion for copy, that's all."

Pledges of discretion having been given all round, Lord Peter settledhimself back and began his tale.

"The curious case of Eric P. Loder affords one more instance of thestrange manner in which some power beyond our puny human wills arrangesthe affairs of men. Call it Providence—call it Destiny——"

"We'll call it off," said Bayes; "you can leave out that part."

Lord Peter groaned and began again.

"Well, the first thing that made me feel a bit inquisitive about Loderwas a casual remark by a man at the Emigration Office in New Yorkwhere I happened to go about that silly affair of Mrs. Bilt's. He said,'What on earth is Eric Loder going to do in Australia? I should havethought Europe was more in his line.'

"'Australia?' I said, 'you're wandering, dear old thing. He told me theother day he was off to Italy in three weeks' time.'

"'Italy, nothing,' he said, 'he was all over our place to-day, askingabout how you got to Sydney and what were the necessary formalities,and so on.'

"'Oh,' I said, 'I suppose he's going by the Pacific route, and callingat Sydney on his way.' But I wondered why he hadn't said so when I'dmet him the day before. He had distinctly talked about sailing forEurope and doing Paris before he went on to Rome.

"I felt so darned inquisitive that I went and called on Loder twonights later.

"He seemed quite pleased to see me, and was full of his forthcomingtrip. I asked him again about his route, and he told me quitedistinctly he was going via Paris.

"Well, that was that, and it wasn't really any of my business, and wechatted about other things. He told me that Mr. Varden was coming tostay with him before he went, and that he hoped to get him to pose fora figure before he left. He said he'd never seen a man so perfectlyformed. 'I meant to get him to do it before,' he said, 'but war brokeout, and he went and joined the army before I had time to start.'

"He was lolling on that beastly couch of his at the time, and,happening to look round at him, I caught such a nasty sort of glitterin his eye that it gave me quite a turn. He was stroking the figureover the neck and grinning at it.

"'None of your efforts in Sheffield-plate, I hope,' said I.

"'Well,' he said, 'I thought of making a kind of companion to this,The Sleeping Athlete, you know, or something of that sort.'

"'You'd much better cast it,' I said. 'Why did you put the stuff on sothick? It destroys the fine detail.'

"That annoyed him. He never liked to hear any objection made to thatwork of art.

"'This was experimental,' he said. 'I mean the next to be a realmasterpiece. You'll see.'

"We'd got to about that point when the butler came in to ask should hemake up a bed for me, as it was such a bad night. We hadn't noticedthe weather particularly, though it had looked a bit threatening whenI started from New York. However, we now looked out, and saw that itwas coming down in sheets and torrents. It wouldn't have mattered, onlythat I'd only brought a little open racing car and no overcoat, andcertainly the prospect of five miles in that downpour wasn't altogetherattractive. Loder urged me to stay, and I said I would.

"I was feeling a bit fa*gged, so I went to bed right off. Loder said hewanted to do a bit of work in the studio first, and I saw him departalong the corridor.

"You won't allow me to mention Providence, so I'll only say it was avery remarkable thing that I should have woken up at two in the morningto find myself lying in a pool of water. The man had stuck a hot-waterbottle into the bed, because it hadn't been used just lately, and thebeastly thing had gone and unstoppered itself. I lay awake for tenminutes in the deeps of damp misery before I had sufficient strength ofmind to investigate. Then I found it was hopeless—sheets, blankets,mattress, all soaked. I looked at the arm-chair, and then I had abrilliant idea. I remembered there was a lovely great divan in thestudio, with a big skin rug and a pile of cushions. Why not finish thenight there? I took the little electric torch which always goes aboutwith me, and started off.

"The studio was empty, so I supposed Loder had finished and trotted offto roost. The divan was there, all right, with a screen drawn partlyacross it, so I rolled myself up under the rug and prepared to snoozeoff.

"I was just getting beautifully sleepy again when I heard footsteps,not in the passage, but apparently on the other side of the room. Iwas surprised, because I didn't know there was any way out in thatdirection. I lay low, and presently I saw a streak of light appear fromthe cupboard where Loder kept his tools and things. The streak widened,and Loder emerged, carrying an electric torch. He closed the cupboarddoor very gently after him, and padded across the studio. He stoppedbefore the easel and uncovered it; I could see him through a crack inthe screen. He stood for some minutes gazing at a sketch on the easel,and then gave one of the nastiest gurgly laughs I've ever had thepleasure of hearing. If I'd ever seriously thought of announcing myunauthorised presence, I abandoned all idea of it then. Presently hecovered the easel again, and went out by the door at which I had comein.

"I waited till I was sure he had gone, and then got up—uncommonlyquietly, I may say. I tiptoed over to the easel to see what thefascinating work of art was. I saw at once it was the design for thefigure of The Sleeping Athlete, and as I looked at it I felt a sortof horrid conviction stealing over me. It was an idea which seemed tobegin in my stomach, and work its way up to the roots of my hair.

"My family say I'm too inquisitive. I can only say that wild horseswouldn't have kept me from investigating that cupboard. With thefeeling that something absolutely vile might hop out at me—I was a bitwrought up, and it was a rotten time of night—I put a heroic hand onthe door knob.

"To my astonishment, the thing wasn't even locked. It opened at once,to show a range of perfectly innocent and orderly shelves, whichcouldn't possibly have held Loder.

"My blood was up, you know, by this time, so I hunted round forthe spring-lock which I knew must exist, and found it without muchdifficulty. The back of the cupboard swung noiselessly inwards, and Ifound myself at the top of a narrow flight of stairs.

"I had the sense to stop and see that the door could be opened fromthe inside before I went any farther, and I also selected a good stoutpestle which I found on the shelves as a weapon in case of accident.Then I closed the door and tripped with elf-like lightness down thatjolly old staircase.

"There was another door at the bottom, but it didn't take me long tofathom the secret of that. Feeling frightfully excited, I threw itboldly open, with the pestle ready for action.

"However, the room seemed to be empty. My torch caught the gleam ofsomething liquid, and then I found the wall-switch.

"I saw a biggish square room, fitted up as a workshop. On theright-hand wall was a big switchboard, with a bench beneath it. Fromthe middle of the ceiling hung a great flood-light, illuminating aglass vat, fully seven feet long by about three wide. I turned on theflood-light, and looked down into the vat. It was filled with a darkbrown liquid which I recognised as the usual compound of cyanide andcopper-sulphate which they use for copper-plating.

"The rods hung over it with their hooks all empty, but there was apacking-case half-opened at one side of the room, and, pulling thecovering aside, I could see rows of copper anodes—enough of them toput a plating over a quarter of an inch thick on a life-size figure.There was a smaller case, still nailed up, which from its weight andappearance I guessed to contain the silver for the rest of the process.There was something else I was looking for, and I soon found it—aconsiderable quantity of prepared graphite and a big jar of varnish.

"Of course, there was no evidence, really, of anything being on thecross. There was no reason why Loder shouldn't make a plaster cast andSheffield-plate it if he had a fancy for that kind of thing. But then Ifound something that couldn't have come there legitimately.

"On the bench was an oval slab of copper about an inch and a halflong—Loder's night's work, I guessed. It was an electrotype ofthe American Consular seal, the thing they stamp on your passportphotograph to keep you from hiking it off and substituting the pictureof your friend Mr. Jiggs, who would like to get out of the countrybecause he is so popular with Scotland Yard.

"I sat down on Loder's stool, and worked out that pretty little plot inall its details. I could see it all turned on three things. First ofall, I must find out if Varden was proposing to make tracks shortly forAustralia, because, if he wasn't, it threw all my beautiful theoriesout. And, secondly, it would help matters greatly if he happened tohave dark hair like Loder's, as he has, you see—near enough, anyway,to fit the description on a passport. I'd only seen him in that ApolloBelvedere thing, with a fair wig on. But I knew if I hung about Ishould see him presently when he came to stay with Loder. And, thirdly,of course, I had to discover if Loder was likely to have any groundsfor a grudge against Varden.

"Well, I figured out I'd stayed down in that room about as long aswas healthy. Loder might come back at any moment, and I didn't forgetthat a vatful of copper sulphate and cyanide of potassium would bea highly handy means of getting rid of a too-inquisitive guest. AndI can't say I had any great fancy for figuring as part of Loder'sdomestic furniture. I've always hated things made in the shape ofthings—volumes of Dickens that turn out to be a biscuit-tin, anddodges like that; and, though I take no overwhelming interest in my ownfuneral, I should like it to be in good taste. I went so far as to wipeaway any finger-marks I might have left behind me, and then I went backto the studio and rearranged that divan. I didn't feel Loder would careto think I'd been down there.

"There was just one other thing I felt inquisitive about. I tiptoedback through the hall and into the smoking-room. The silver couchglimmered in the light of the torch. I felt I disliked it fifty timesmore than ever before. However, I pulled myself together and took acareful look at the feet of the figure. I'd heard all about that secondtoe of Maria Morano's.

"I passed the rest of the night in the arm-chair after all.

"What with Mrs. Bilt's job and one thing and another, and the enquiriesI had to make, I had to put off my interference in Loder's little gametill rather late. I found out that Varden had been staying with Loder afew months before the beautiful Maria Morano had vanished. I'm afraid Iwas rather stupid about that, Mr. Varden. I thought perhaps there hadbeen something."

"Don't apologise," said Varden, with a little laugh. "Cinema actors arenotoriously immoral."

"Why rub it in?" said Wimsey, a trifle hurt. "I apologise. Anyway,it came to the same thing as far as Loder was concerned. Then therewas one bit of evidence I had to get to be absolutely certain.Electro-plating—especially such a ticklish job as the one I had inmind—wasn't a job that could be finished in a night; on the otherhand, it seemed necessary that Mr. Varden should be seen alive in NewYork up to the day he was scheduled to depart. It was also clear thatLoder meant to be able to prove that a Mr. Varden had left New Yorkall right, according to plan, and had actually arrived in Sydney.Accordingly, a false Mr. Varden was to depart with Varden's papersand Varden's passport, furnished with a new photograph duly stampedwith the Consular stamp, and to disappear quietly at Sydney and beretransformed into Mr. Eric Loder, travelling with a perfectly regularpassport of his own. Well, then, in that case, obviously a cablegramwould have to be sent off to Mystofilms Ltd., warning them to expectVarden by a later boat than he had arranged. I handed over this partof the job to my man, Bunter, who is uncommonly capable. The devotedfellow shadowed Loder faithfully for getting on for three weeks, and atlength, the very day before Mr. Varden was due to depart, the cablegramwas sent from an office in Broadway, where, by a happy providence (oncemore) they supply extremely hard pencils."

"By Jove!" cried Varden, "I remember now being told something abouta cablegram when I got out, but I never connected it with Loder. Ithought it was just some stupidity of the Western Electric people."

"Quite so. Well, as soon as I'd got that, I popped along to Loder'swith a picklock in one pocket and an automatic in the other. The goodBunter went with me, and, if I didn't return by a certain time, hadorders to telephone for the police. So you see everything was prettywell covered. Bunter was the chauffeur who was waiting for you, Mr.Varden, but you turned suspicious—I don't blame you altogether—so allwe could do was to forward your luggage along to the train.

"On the way out we met the Loder servants en route for New York in acar, which showed us that we were on the right track, and also that Iwas going to have a fairly simple job of it.

"You've heard all about my interview with Mr. Varden. I really don'tthink I could improve upon his account. When I'd seen him and his trapssafely off the premises, I made for the studio. It was empty, so Iopened the secret door, and, as I expected, saw a line of light underthe workshop door at the far end of the passage."

"So Loder was there all the time?"

"Of course he was. I took my little pop-gun tight in my fist andopened the door very gently. Loder was standing between the tank andthe switchboard, very busy indeed—so busy he didn't hear me come in.His hands were black with graphite, a big heap of which was spread ona sheet on the floor, and he was engaged with a long, springy coilof copper wire, running to the output of the transformer. The bigpacking-case had been opened, and all the hooks were occupied.

"'Loder!' I said.

"He turned on me with a face like nothing human. 'Wimsey!' he shouted,'what the hell are you doing here?'

"'I have come,' I said, 'to tell you that I know how the apple getsinto the dumpling.' And I showed him the automatic.

"He gave a great yell and dashed at the switchboard, turning out thelight, so that I could not see to aim. I heard him leap at me—and thenthere came in the darkness a crash and a splash—and a shriek such as Inever heard—not in five years of war—and never want to hear again.

"I groped forward for the switchboard. Of course, I turned oneverything before I could lay my hand on the light, but I got it atlast—a great white glare from the flood-light over the vat.

"He lay there, still twitching faintly. Cyanide, you see, is about theswiftest and painfullest thing out. Before I could move to do anything,I knew he was dead—poisoned and drowned and dead. The coil of wirethat had tripped him had gone into the vat with him. Without thinking,I touched it, and got a shock that pretty well staggered me. Then Irealised that I must have turned on the current when I was hunting forthe light. I looked into the vat again. As he fell, his dying handshad clutched at the wire. The coils were tight round his fingers, andthe current was methodically depositing a film of copper all over hishands, which were blackened with the graphite.

"I had just sense enough to realise that Loder was dead, and that itmight be a nasty sort of look-out for me if the thing came out, for I'dcertainly gone along to threaten him with a pistol.

"I searched about till I found some solder and an iron. Then I wentupstairs and called in Bunter, who had done his ten miles in recordtime. We went into the smoking-room and soldered the arm of thatcursed figure into place again, as well as we could, and then we tookeverything back into the workshop. We cleaned off every finger-printand removed every trace of our presence. We left the light and theswitchboard as they were, and returned to New York by an extremelyround-about route. The only thing we brought away with us was thefacsimile of the Consular seal, and that we threw into the river.

"Loder was found by the butler next morning. We read in the papershow he had fallen into the vat when engaged on some experiments inelectro-plating. The ghastly fact was commented upon that the deadman's hands were thickly coppered over. They couldn't get it offwithout irreverent violence, so he was buried like that.

"That's all. Please, Armstrong, may I have my whisky-and-soda now?"

"What happened to the couch?" enquired Smith-Hartington presently.

"I bought it in at the sale of Loder's things," said Wimsey, "and gothold of a dear old Catholic priest I knew, to whom I told the wholestory under strict vow of secrecy. He was a very sensible and feelingold bird; so one moonlight night Bunter and I carried the thing out inthe car to his own little church, some miles out of the city, and gaveit Christian burial in a corner of the graveyard. It seemed the bestthing to do."

THE ENTERTAINING EPISODE OF THE ARTICLE IN QUESTION

The unprofessional detective career of Lord Peter Wimsey was regulated(though the word has no particular propriety in this connection) by apersistent and undignified inquisitiveness. The habit of asking sillyquestions—natural, though irritating, in the immature male—remainedwith him long after his immaculate man, Bunter, had become attachedto his service to shave the bristles from his chin and see to the duepurchase and housing of Napoleon brandies and Villar y Villar cigars.At the age of thirty-two his sister Mary christened him Elephant'sChild. It was his idiotic enquiries (before his brother, the Duke ofDenver, who grew scarlet with mortification) as to what the Woolsackwas really stuffed with that led the then Lord Chancellor idly toinvestigate the article in question, and to discover, tucked deepwithin its recesses, that famous diamond necklace of the Marchionessof Writtle, which had disappeared on the day Parliament was opened andbeen safely secreted by one of the cleaners. It was by a continual andpersonal badgering of the Chief Engineer at 2LO on the question of "Whyis Oscillation and How is it Done?" that his lordship incidentallyunmasked the great Ploffsky gang of Anarchist conspirators, who wereaccustomed to converse in code by a methodical system of howls,superimposed (to the great annoyance of listeners in British andEuropean stations) upon the London wave-length and duly relayed by 5XXover a radius of some five or six hundred miles. He annoyed persons ofmore leisure than decorum by suddenly taking into his head to descendto the Underground by way of the stairs, though the only excitingthings he ever actually found there were the bloodstained boots of theSloane Square murderer; on the other hand, when the drains were takenup at Glegg's Folly, it was by hanging about and hindering the plumbersat their job that he accidentally made the discovery which hanged thatdetestable poisoner, William Girdlestone Chitty.

Accordingly, it was with no surprise at all that the reliable Bunter,one April morning, received the announcement of an abrupt change ofplan.

They had arrived at the Gare St. Lazare in good time to registerthe luggage. Their three months' trip to Italy had been purely forenjoyment, and had been followed by a pleasant fortnight in Paris. Theywere now intending to pay a short visit to the Duc de Sainte-Croix inRouen on their way back to England. Lord Peter paced the Salle des PasPerdus for some time, buying an illustrated paper or two and eyeingthe crowd. He bent an appreciative eye on a slim, shingled creaturewith the face of a Paris gamin, but was forced to admit to himselfthat her ankles were a trifle on the thick side; he assisted an elderlylady who was explaining to the bookstall clerk that she wanted a map ofParis and not a carte postale, consumed a quick cognac at one of thelittle green tables at the far end, and then decided he had better godown and see how Bunter was getting on.

In half an hour Bunter and his porter had worked themselves up tothe second place in the enormous queue—for, as usual, one of theweighing-machines was out of order. In front of them stood an agitatedlittle group—the young woman Lord Peter had noticed in the Salle desPas Perdus, a sallow-faced man of about thirty, their porter, and theregistration official, who was peering eagerly through his littleguichet.

"Mais je te répète que je ne les ai pas," said the sallow man heatedly."Voyons, voyons. C'est bien toi qui les as pris, n'est-ce-pas? Eh bien,alors, comment veux-tu que je les aie, moi?"

"Mais non, mais non, je te les ai bien donnés là-haut, avant d'allerchercher les journaux."

"Je t'assure que non. Enfin, c'est évident! J'ai cherché partout, quediable! Tu ne m'as rien donné, du tout, du tout."

"Mais puisque je t'ai dit d'aller faire enrégistrer les bagages! Nefaut-il pas que je t'aie bien remis les billets? Me prends-tu pour unimbécile? Va! On n'est pas dépourvu de sens! Mais regarde l'heure! Letrain part à 11 h. 20 m. Cherche un peu, au moins."

"Mais puisque j'ai cherché partout—le gilet, rien! Le jacquet rien,rien! Le pardessus—rien! rien! rien! C'est toi——"

Here the porter, urged by the frantic cries and stamping of the queue,and the repeated insults of Lord Peter's porter, flung himself into thediscussion.

"P't-être qu' m'sieur a bouté les billets dans son pantalon," hesuggested.

"Triple idiot!" snapped the traveller, "je vous le demande—est-cequ'on a jamais entendu parler de mettre des billets dans son pantalon?Jamais——"

The French porter is a Republican, and, moreover, extremely ill-paid.The large tolerance of his English colleague is not for him.

"Ah!" said he, dropping two heavy bags and looking round for moralsupport. "Vous dîtes? En voila du joli! Allons, mon p'tit, ce n'est pasparce qu'on porte un faux col qu'on a le droit d'insulter les gens."

The discussion might have become a full-blown row, had not the youngman suddenly discovered the missing tickets—incidentally, they were inhis trousers-pocket after all—and continued the registration of hisluggage, to the undisguised satisfaction of the crowd.

"Bunter," said his lordship, who had turned his back on the group andwas lighting a cigarette, "I am going to change the tickets. We shallgo straight on to London. Have you got that snapshot affair of yourswith you?"

"Yes, my lord."

"The one you can work from your pocket without anyone noticing?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Get me a picture of those two."

"Yes, my lord."

"I will see to the luggage. Wire to the Duc that I am unexpectedlycalled home."

"Very good, my lord."

Lord Peter did not allude to the matter again till Bunter was puttinghis trousers in the press in their cabin on board the Normannia.Beyond ascertaining that the young man and woman who had arousedhis curiosity were on the boat as second-class passengers, he hadsedulously avoided contact with them.

"Did you get that photograph?"

"I hope so, my lord. As your lordship knows, the aim from thebreast-pocket tends to be unreliable. I have made three attempts, andtrust that one at least may prove to be not unsuccessful."

"How soon can you develop them?"

"At once, if your lordship pleases. I have all the materials in my suitcase."

"What fun!" said Lord Peter, eagerly tying himself into a pair of mauvesilk pyjamas. "May I hold the bottles and things?"

Mr. Bunter poured 3 ounces of water into an 8-ounce measure, and handedhis master a glass rod and a minute packet.

"If your lordship would be so good as to stir the contents of the whitepacket slowly into the water," he said, bolting the door, "and, whendissolved, add the contents of the blue packet."

"Just like a Seidlitz powder," said his lordship happily. "Does itfizz?"

"Not much, my lord," replied the expert, shaking a quantity of hypocrystals into the hand-basin.

"That's a pity," said Lord Peter. "I say, Bunter, it's no end of a boreto dissolve."

"Yes, my lord," returned Bunter sedately. "I have always found thatpart of the process exceptionally tedious, my lord."

Lord Peter jabbed viciously with the glass rod.

"Just you wait," he said, in a vindictive tone, "till we get toWaterloo."

Three days later Lord Peter Wimsey sat in his book-lined sitting-roomat 110A Piccadilly. The tall bunches of daffodils on the tablesmiled in the spring sunshine, and nodded to the breeze which dancedin from the open window. The door opened, and his lordship glanced upfrom a handsome edition of the Contes de la Fontaine, whose handsomehand-coloured Fragonard plates he was examining with the aid of a lens.

"Morning, Bunter. Anything doing?"

"I have ascertained, my lord, that the young person in question hasentered the service of the elder duch*ess of Medway. Her name isCélestine Berger."

"You are less accurate than usual, Bunter. Nobody off the stage iscalled Célestine. You should say 'under the name of Célestine Berger.'And the man?"

"He is domiciled at this address in Guilford Street, Bloomsbury, mylord."

"Excellent, my Bunter. Now give me Who's Who. Was it a very tiresomejob?"

"Not exceptionally so, my lord."

"One of these days I suppose I shall give you something to do which youwill jib at," said his lordship, "and you will leave me and I shallcut my throat. Thanks. Run away and play. I shall lunch at the club."

The book which Bunter had handed his employer indeed bore the wordsWho's Who engrossed upon its cover, but it was to be found in nopublic library and in no bookseller's shop. It was a bulky manuscript,closely filled, in part with the small print-like handwriting of Mr.Bunter, in part with Lord Peter's neat and altogether illegible hand.It contained biographies of the most unexpected people, and the mostunexpected facts about the most obvious people. Lord Peter turned toa very long entry under the name of the Dowager duch*ess of Medway. Itappeared to make satisfactory reading, for after a time he smiled,closed the book, and went to the telephone.

"Yes—this is the duch*ess of Medway. Who is it?"

The deep, harsh old voice pleased Lord Peter. He could see theimperious face and upright figure of what had been the most famousbeauty in the London of the 'sixties.

"It's Peter Wimsey, duch*ess."

"Indeed, and how do you do, young man? Back from your Continentaljaunting?"

"Just home—and longing to lay my devotion at the feet of the mostfascinating lady in England."

"God bless my soul, child, what do you want?" demanded the duch*ess."Boys like you don't flatter an old woman for nothing."

"I want to tell you my sins, duch*ess."

"You should have lived in the great days," said the voiceappreciatively. "Your talents are wasted on the young fry."

"That is why I want to talk to you, duch*ess."

"Well, my dear, if you've committed any sins worth hearing I shallenjoy your visit."

"You are as exquisite in kindness as in charm. I am coming thisafternoon."

"I will be at home to you and to no one else. There."

"Dear lady, I kiss your hands," said Lord Peter, and he heard a deepchuckle as the duch*ess rang off.

"You may say what you like, duch*ess," said Lord Peter from hisreverential position on the fender-stool, "but you are the youngestgrandmother in London, not excepting my own mother."

"Dear Honoria is the merest child," said the duch*ess. "I have twentyyears more experience of life, and have arrived at the age when weboast of them. I have every intention of being a great-grandmotherbefore I die. Sylvia is being married in a fortnight's time, to thatstupid son of Attenbury's."

"Abco*ck?"

"Yes. He keeps the worst hunters I ever saw, and doesn't know stillchampagne from sauterne. But Sylvia is stupid, too, poor child, so Idare say they will get on charmingly. In my day one had to have eitherbrains or beauty to get on—preferably both. Nowadays nothing seems tobe required but a total lack of figure. But all the sense went out ofsociety with the House of Lords' veto. I except you, Peter. You havetalents. It is a pity you do not employ them in politics."

"Dear lady, God forbid."

"Perhaps you are right, as things are. There were giants in my day.Dear Dizzy. I remember so well, when his wife died, how hard we alltried to get him—Medway had died the year before—but he was wrappedup in that stupid Bradford woman, who had never even read a line of oneof his books, and couldn't have understood 'em if she had. And now wehave Abco*ck standing for Midhurst, and married to Sylvia!"

"You haven't invited me to the wedding, duch*ess dear. I'm so hurt,"sighed his lordship.

"Bless you, child, I didn't send out the invitations, but I supposeyour brother and that tiresome wife of his will be there. You mustcome, of course, if you want to. I had no idea you had a passion forweddings."

"Hadn't you?" said Peter. "I have a passion for this one. I want to seeLady Sylvia wearing white satin and the family lace and diamonds, andto sentimentalise over the days when my fox-terrier bit the stuffingout of her doll."

"Very well, my dear, you shall. Come early and give me your support.As for the diamonds, if it weren't a family tradition, Sylvia shouldn'twear them. She has the impudence to complain of them."

"I thought they were some of the finest in existence."

"So they are. But she says the settings are ugly and old-fashioned,and she doesn't like diamonds, and they won't go with her dress. Suchnonsense. Whoever heard of a girl not liking diamonds? She wants to besomething romantic and moonshiny in pearls. I have no patience withher."

"I'll promise to admire them," said Peter—"use the privilege of earlyacquaintance and tell her she's an ass and so on. I'd love to have aview of them. When do they come out of cold storage?"

"Mr. Whitehead will bring them up from the Bank the night before," saidthe duch*ess, "and they'll go into the safe in my room. Come round attwelve o'clock and you shall have a private view of them."

"That would be delightful. Mind they don't disappear in the night,won't you?"

"Oh, my dear, the house is going to be over-run with policemen. Such anuisance. I suppose it can't be helped."

"Oh, I think it's a good thing," said Peter. "I have rather anunwholesome weakness for policemen."

On the morning of the wedding-day, Lord Peter emerged from Bunter'shands a marvel of sleek brilliance. His primrose-coloured hair wasso exquisite a work of art that to eclipse it with his glossy hatwas like shutting up the sun in a shrine of polished jet; his spats,light trousers, and exquisitely polished shoes formed a tone-symphonyin monochrome. It was only by the most impassioned pleading that hepersuaded his tyrant to allow him to place two small photographs anda thin, foreign letter in his breast-pocket. Mr. Bunter, likewiseimmaculately attired, stepped into the taxi after him. At noonprecisely they were deposited beneath the striped awning which adornedthe door of the duch*ess of Medway's house in Park Lane. Bunter promptlydisappeared in the direction of the back entrance, while his lordshipmounted the steps and asked to see the dowager.

The majority of the guests had not yet arrived, but the house wasfull of agitated people, flitting hither and thither, with flowersand prayer-books, while a clatter of dishes and cutlery from thedining-room proclaimed the laying of a sumptuous breakfast. Lord Peterwas shown into the morning-room while the footman went to announcehim, and here he found a very close friend and devoted colleague,Detective-Inspector Parker, mounting guard in plain clothes over acostly collection of white elephants. Lord Peter greeted him with anaffectionate hand-grip.

"All serene so far?" he enquired.

"Perfectly O.K."

"You got my note?"

"Sure thing. I've got three of our men shadowing your friend inGuilford Street. The girl is very much in evidence here. Does the oldlady's wig and that sort of thing. Bit of a coming-on disposition,isn't she?"

"You surprise me," said Lord Peter. "No"—as his friend grinnedsardonically—"you really do. Not seriously? That would throw all mycalculations out."

"Oh, no! Saucy with her eyes and her tongue, that's all."

"Do her job well?"

"I've heard no complaints. What put you on to this?"

"Pure accident. Of course I may be quite mistaken."

"Did you receive any information from Paris?"

"I wish you wouldn't use that phrase," said Lord Peter peevishly. "It'sso of the Yard—yardy. One of these days it'll give you away."

"Sorry," said Parker. "Second nature, I suppose."

"Those are the things to beware of," returned his lordship, with anearnestness that seemed a little out of place. "One can keep guard oneverything but just those second-nature tricks." He moved across to thewindow, which overlooked the tradesmen's entrance. "Hullo!" he said,"here's our bird."

Parker joined him, and saw the neat, shingled head of the French girlfrom the Gare St. Lazare, topped by a neat black bandeau and bow. A manwith a basket full of white narcissi had rung the bell, and appearedto be trying to make a sale. Parker gently opened the window, and theyheard Célestine say with a marked French accent, "No, nossing to-day,sank you." The man insisted in the monotonous whine of his type,thrusting a big bunch of the white flowers upon her, but she pushedthem back into the basket with an angry exclamation and flirted away,tossing her head and slapping the door smartly to. The man moved offmuttering. As he did so a thin, unhealthy-looking lounger in a checkcap detached himself from a lamp-post opposite and mouched along thestreet after him, at the same time casting a glance up at the window.Mr. Parker looked at Lord Peter, nodded, and made a slight sign withhis hand. At once the man in the check cap removed his cigarette fromhis mouth, extinguished it, and, tucking the stub behind his ear, movedoff without a second glance.

"Very interesting," said Lord Peter, when both were out of sight."Hark!"

There was a sound of running feet overhead—a cry—and a generalcommotion. The two men dashed to the door as the bride, rushingfrantically downstairs with her bevy of bridesmaids after her,proclaimed in a hysterical shriek: "The diamonds! They're stolen!They're gone!"

Instantly the house was in an uproar. The servants and the caterers'men crowded into the hall; the bride's father burst out from his roomin a magnificent white waistcoat and no coat; the duch*ess of Medwaydescended upon Mr. Parker, demanding that something should be done;while the butler, who never to the day of his death got over thedisgrace, ran out of the pantry with a corkscrew in one hand and apriceless bottle of crusted port in the other, which he shook with allthe vehemence of a town-crier ringing a bell. The only dignified entrywas made by the dowager duch*ess, who came down like a ship in sail,dragging Célestine with her, and admonishing her not to be so silly.

"Be quiet, girl," said the dowager. "Anyone would think you were goingto be murdered."

"Allow me, your grace," said Mr. Bunter, appearing suddenly fromnowhere in his usual unperturbed manner, and taking the agitatedCélestine firmly by the arm. "Young woman, calm yourself."

"But what is to be done?" cried the bride's mother. "How did ithappen?"

It was at this moment that Detective-Inspector Parker took the floor.It was the most impressive and dramatic moment in his whole career. Hismagnificent calm rebuked the clamorous nobility surrounding him.

"Your grace," he said, "there is no cause for alarm. Our measures havebeen taken. We have the criminals and the gems, thanks to Lord PeterWimsey, from whom we received inf——"

"Charles!" said Lord Peter in an awful voice.

"Warning of the attempt. One of our men is just bringing in themale criminal at the front door, taken red-handed with your grace'sdiamonds in his possession." (All gazed round, and perceived indeedthe check-capped lounger and a uniformed constable entering with theflower-seller between them.) "The female criminal, who picked the lockof your grace's safe, is—here! No, you don't," he added, as Célestine,amid a torrent of apache language which nobody, fortunately, had Frenchenough to understand, attempted to whip out a revolver from the bosomof her demure black dress. "Célestine Berger," he continued, pocketingthe weapon, "I arrest you in the name of the law, and I warn you thatanything you say will be taken down and used as evidence against you."

"Heaven help us," said Lord Peter; "the roof would fly off the court.And you've got the name wrong, Charles. Ladies and gentlemen, allowme to introduce to you Jacques Lerouge, known as Sans-culotte—theyoungest and cleverest thief, safe-breaker, and female impersonatorthat ever occupied a dossier in the Palais de Justice."

There was a gasp. Jacques Sans-culotte gave vent to a low oath andco*cked a gamin grimace at Peter.

"C'est parfait," said he; "toutes mes félicitations, milord, what youcall a fair cop, hein? And now I know him," he added, grinning atBunter, "the so-patient Englishman who stand behind us in the queue atSt. Lazare. But tell me, please, how you know me, that I may correctit, next time."

"I have mentioned to you before, Charles," said Lord Peter, "theunwisdom of falling into habits of speech. They give you away. Now,in France, every male child is brought up to use masculine adjectivesabout himself. He says: Que je suis beau! But a little girl has itrammed home to her that she is female; she must say: Que je suis belle!It must make it beastly hard to be a female impersonator. When I am ata station and I hear an excited young woman say to her companion, 'Meprends-tu pour un imbécile'—the masculine article arouses curiosity.And that's that!" he concluded briskly. "The rest was merely a matterof getting Bunter to take a photograph and communicating with ourfriends of the Sureté and Scotland Yard."

Jacques Sans-culotte bowed again.

"Once more I congratulate milord. He is the only Englishman I have evermet who is capable of appreciating our beautiful language. I will paygreat attention in future to the article in question."

With an awful look, the Dowager duch*ess of Medway advanced upon LordPeter.

"Peter," she said, "do you mean to say you knew about this, andthat for the last three weeks you have allowed me to be dressed andundressed and put to bed by a young man?"

His lordship had the grace to blush.

"duch*ess," he said humbly, "on my honour I didn't know absolutely forcertain till this morning. And the police were so anxious to have thesepeople caught red-handed. What can I do to show my penitence? Shall Icut the privileged beast in pieces?"

The grim old mouth relaxed a little.

"After all," said the dowager duch*ess, with the delightfulconsciousness that she was going to shock her daughter-in-law, "thereare very few women of my age who could make the same boast. It seemsthat we die as we have lived, my dear."

For indeed the Dowager duch*ess of Medway had been notable in her day.

THE FASCINATING PROBLEM OF UNCLE MELEAGER'S WILL

"You look a little worried, Bunter," said his lordship kindly to hismanservant. "Is there anything I can do?"

The valet's face brightened as he released his employer's grey trousersfrom the press.

"Perhaps your lordship could be so good as to think," he saidhopefully, "of a word in seven letters with S in the middle, meaningtwo."

"Also," suggested Lord Peter thoughtlessly.

"I beg your lordship's pardon. T-w-o. And seven letters."

"Nonsense!" said Lord Peter. "How about that bath?"

"It should be just about ready, my lord."

Lord Peter Wimsey swung his mauve silk legs lightly over the edgeof the bed and stretched appreciatively. It was a beautiful Junethat year. Through the open door he saw the delicate coils of steamwreathing across a shaft of yellow sunlight. Every step he took intothe bathroom was a conscious act of enjoyment. In a husky light tenorhe carolled a few bars of "Maman, dites-moi." Then a thought struckhim, and he turned back.

"Bunter!"

"My lord?"

"No bacon this morning. Quite the wrong smell."

"I was thinking of buttered eggs, my lord."

"Excellent. Like primroses. The Beaconsfield touch," said his lordshipapprovingly.

His song died into a rapturous crooning as he settled into theverbena-scented water. His eyes roamed vaguely over the paleblue-and-white tiles of the bathroom walls.

Mr. Bunter had retired to the kitchen to put the coffee on the stovewhen the bell rang. Surprised, he hastened back to the bedroom. It wasempty. With increased surprise, he realised that it must have been thebathroom bell. The words "heart-attack" formed swiftly in his mind, tobe displaced by the still more alarming thought, "No soap." He openedthe door almost nervously.

"Did you ring, my lord?" he demanded of Lord Peter's head, alonevisible.

"Yes," said his lordship abruptly; "Ambsace."

"I beg your lordship's pardon?"

"Ambsace. Word of seven letters. Meaning two. With S in the middle. Twoaces. Ambsace."

Bunter's expression became beatified.

"Undoubtedly correct," he said, pulling a small sheet of paper fromhis pocket, and entering the word upon it in pencil. "I am extremelyobliged to your lordship. In that case the 'indifferent cook in sixletters ending with red' must be Alfred."

Lord Peter waved a dismissive hand.

On re-entering his bedroom, Lord Peter was astonished to see his sisterMary seated in his own particular chair and consuming his butteredeggs. He greeted her with a friendly acerbity, demanding why she shouldlook him up at that unearthly hour.

"I'm riding with Freddy Arbuthnot," said her ladyship, "as you mightsee by my legs, if you were really as big a Sherlock as you make out."

"Riding," replied her brother; "I had already deduced, though I admitthat Freddy's name was not writ large, to my before-breakfast eye, uponthe knees of your breeches. But why this visit?"

"Well, because you were on the way," said Lady Mary, "and I'm bookedup all day, and I want you to come and dine at the Soviet Club with meto-night."

"Good God, Mary, why? You know I hate the place. Cooking's beastly, themen don't shave, and the conversation gets my goat. Besides, last timeI went there, your friend Goyles plugged me in the shoulder. I thoughtyou'd chucked the Soviet Club."

"It isn't me. It's Hannah Marryat."

"What, the intense young woman with the badly bobbed hair and thebrogues?"

"Well, she's never been able to afford a good hairdresser. That's justwhat I want your help about."

"My dear child, I can't cut her hair for her. Bunter might. He can domost things."

"Silly. No. But she's got—that is, she used to have—an uncle, thevery rich, curmudgeony sort, you know, who never gave anyone a penny.Well, he's dead, and they can't find his will."

"Perhaps he didn't make one."

"Oh, yes, he did. He wrote and told her so. But the nasty old thing hidit, and it can't be found."

"Is the will in her favour?"

"Yes."

"Who's the next-of-kin?"

"She and her mother are the only members of the family left."

"Well, then, she's only got to sit tight and she'll get the goods."

"No—because the horrid old man left two wills, and, if she can't findthe latest one, they'll prove the first one. He explained that to hercarefully."

"Oh, I see. H'm. By the way, I thought the young woman was a Socialist."

"Oh, she is. Terrifically so. One really can't help admiring her. Shehas done some wonderful work——"

"Yes, I dare say. But in that case I don't see why she need be so keenon getting uncle's dollars."

Mary began to chuckle.

"Ah! but that's where Uncle Meleager——"

"Uncle what?"

"Meleager. That's his name. Meleager Finch."

"Oh!"

"Yes—well, that's where he's been so clever. Unless she finds the newwill, the old will comes into force and hands over every penny of themoney to the funds of the Primrose League."

Lord Peter gave a little yelp of joy.

"Good for Uncle Meleager! But, look here, Polly, I'm a Tory, ifanything. I'm certainly not a Red. Why should I help to snatch thegood gold from the Primrose Leaguers and hand it over to the ThirdInternational? Uncle Meleager's a sport. I take to Uncle Meleager."

"Oh, but Peter, I really don't think she'll do that with it. Not atpresent, anyway. They're awfully poor, and her mother ought to havesome frightfully difficult operation or something, and go and liveabroad, so it really is ever so important they should get the money.And perhaps Hannah wouldn't be quite so Red if she'd ever had a bean ofher own. Besides, you could make it a condition of helping her that sheshould go and get properly shingled at Bresil's."

"You are a very cynically-minded person," said his lordship. "However,it would be fun to have a go at Uncle M. Was he obliging enough to giveany clues for finding the will?"

"He wrote a funny sort of letter, which we can't make head or tail of.Come to the club to-night and she'll show it to you."

"Right-ho! Seven o'clock do? And we could go on and see a showafterwards. Do you mind clearing out now? I'm going to get dressed."

Amid a deafening babble of voices in a low-pitched cellar, the SovietClub meets and dines. Ethics and sociology, the latest vortices ofthe Whirligig school of verse, combine with the smoke of countlesscigarettes to produce an inspissated atmosphere, through which flat,angular mural paintings dimly lower upon the revellers. There ispainfully little room for the elbows, or indeed for any part of one'sbody. Lord Peter—his feet curled under his chair to avoid the straykicks of the heavy brogues opposite him—was acutely conscious of anunbecoming attitude and an overheated feeling about the head. He foundit difficult to get any response from Hannah Marryat. Under her heavy,ill-cut fringe her dark eyes gloomed sombrely at him. At the same timehe received a strong impression of something enormously vital. He hada sudden fancy that if she were set free from self-defensiveness andthe importance of being earnest, she would exhibit unexpected powers ofenjoyment. He was interested, but oppressed. Mary, to his great relief,suggested that they should have their coffee upstairs.

They found a quiet corner with comfortable chairs.

"Well, now," said Mary encouragingly.

"Of course you understand," said Miss Marryat mournfully, "that if itwere not for the monstrous injustice of Uncle Meleager's other will,and mother being so ill, I shouldn't take any steps. But when there is£250,000, and the prospect of doing real good with it——"

"Naturally," said Lord Peter, "it isn't the money you care about, asthe dear old bromide says, it's the principle of the thing. Right youare! Now supposin' we have a look at Uncle Meleager's letter."

Miss Marryat rummaged in a very large hand-bag and passed the paperover.

This was Uncle Meleager's letter, dated from Siena twelve monthspreviously.

"Couldn't we use that letter as proof of the testator's intention, andfight the will?" asked Mary anxiously.

"'Fraid not," said Lord Peter. "You see, there's no evidence here thatthe will was ever actually drawn up. Though I suppose we could find thewitnesses."

"We've tried," said Miss Marryat, "but, as you see, Uncle Meleager wastravelling abroad at the time, and he probably got some obscure peoplein some obscure Italian town to witness it for him. We advertised, butgot no answer."

"H'm. Uncle Meleager doesn't seem to have left things to chance. And,anyhow, wills are queer things, and so are the probate and divorcewallahs. Obviously the thing to do is to find the other will. Did theclues he speaks of turn up among his papers?"

"We hunted through everything. And, of course, we had the whole housesearched from top to bottom for the will. But it was quite useless."

"You've not destroyed anything, of course. Who were the executors ofthe Primrose League will?"

"Mother and Mr. Sands, Uncle Meleager's solicitor. The will left mothera silver tea-pot for her trouble."

"I like Uncle Meleager more and more. Anyhow, he did the sportingthing. I'm beginnin' to enjoy this case like anything. Where did UncleMeleager hang out?"

"It's an old house down at Dorking. It's rather quaint. Somebodyhad a fancy to build a little Roman villa sort of thing there, witha verandah behind, with columns and a pond in the front hall, andstatues. It's very decent there just now, though it's awfully coldin the winter, with all those stone floors and stone stairs and theskylight over the hall! Mother said perhaps you would be very kind andcome down and have a look at it."

"I'd simply love to. Can we start to-morrow? I promise you we'll befrivolous enough to please even Uncle Meleager, if you'll do your bit,Miss Marryat. Won't we, Mary?"

"Rather! And, I say, hadn't we better be moving if we're going to thePallambra?"

"I never go to music halls," said Miss Marryat ungraciously.

"Oh, but you must come to-night," said his lordship persuasively. "It'sso frivolous. Just think how it would please Uncle Meleager."

Accordingly, the next day found the party, including the indispensableMr. Bunter, assembled at Uncle Meleager's house. Pending the settlementof the will question, there had seemed every reason why Mr. Finch'sexecutrix and next-of-kin should live in the house, thus providingevery facility for what Lord Peter called the "Treasure hunt." Afterbeing introduced to Mrs. Marryat, who was an invalid and remainedin her room, Lady Mary and her brother were shown over the house byMiss Marryat, who explained to them how carefully the search hadbeen conducted. Every paper had been examined, every book in thelibrary scrutinised page by page, the walls and chimneys tapped forhiding-places, the boards taken up, and so forth, but with no result.

"Y'know," said his lordship, "I'm sure you've been going the wrong wayto work. My idea is, old Uncle Meleager was a man of his word. If hesaid frivolous, he meant really frivolous. Something beastly silly. Iwonder what it was."

He was still wondering when he went up to dress. Bunter was puttingstuds in his shirt. Lord Peter gazed thoughtfully at him, and thenenquired:

"Are any of Mr. Finch's old staff still here?"

"Yes, my lord. The cook and the housekeeper. Wonderful old gentlemanthey say he was, too. Eighty-three, but as up to date as you please.Had his wireless in his bedroom, and enjoyed the Savoy bands everynight of his life. Followed his politics, and was always ready withthe details of the latest big law-cases. If a young lady came to seehim, he'd like to see she had her hair shingled and the latest style infashions. They say he took up cross-words as soon as they came in, andwas remarkably quick at solving them, my lord, and inventing them. Tooka £10 prize in the Daily Yell for one, and was wonderfully pleased toget it, they say, my lord, rich as he was."

"Indeed."

"Yes, my lord. He was a great man for acrostics before that, Iunderstood them to say, but, when cross-words came in, he threw awayhis acrostics and said he liked the new game better. Wonderfullyadaptable, if I may say so, he seems to have been for an old gentleman."

"Was he, by Jove?" said his lordship absently, and then, with suddenenergy:

"Bunter, I'd like to double your salary, but I suppose you'd take it asan insult."

The conversation bore fruit at dinner.

"What," enquired his lordship, "happened to Uncle Meleager'scross-words?"

"Cross-words?" said Hannah Marryat, knitting her heavy brows. "Oh,those puzzle things! Poor old man, he went mad over them. He had everynewspaper sent him, and in his last illness he'd be trying to fill thewretched things in. It was worse than his acrostics and his jig-sawpuzzles. Poor old creature, he must have been senile, I'm afraid. Ofcourse, we looked through them, but there wasn't anything there. We putthem all in the attic."

"The attic for me," said Lord Peter.

"And for me," said Mary. "I don't believe there was anything senileabout Uncle Meleager."

The evening was warm, and they had dined in the little viridarium atthe back of the house, with its tall vases and hanging baskets offlowers and little marble statues.

"Is there an attic here?" said Peter. "It seems such a—well, such anun-attic thing to have in a house like this."

"It's just a horrid, poky little hole over the porch," said MissMarryat, rising and leading the way. "Don't tumble into the pond, willyou? It's a great nuisance having it there, especially at night. Ialways tell them to leave a light on."

Lord Peter glanced into the miniature impluvium, with its tiling ofred, white and black marble.

"That's not a very classic design," he observed.

"No. Uncle Meleager used to complain about it and say he must have italtered. There was a proper one once, I believe, but it got damaged,and the man before Uncle Meleager had it replaced by some local idiot.He built three bay windows out of the dining-room at the same time,which made it very much lighter and pleasanter, of course, but it looksawful. Now, this tiling is all right; uncle put that in himself."

She pointed to a mosaic dog at the threshold, with the motto, "Cavecanem," and Lord Peter recognised it as a copy of a Pompeian original.

A narrow stair brought them to the "attic," where the Wimseys flungthemselves with enthusiasm upon a huge heap of dusty old newspapersand manuscripts. The latter seemed the likelier field, so theystarted with them. They consisted of a quantity of cross-words inmanuscript—presumably the children of Uncle Meleager's own brain. Thesquare, the list of definitions, and the solution were in every caseneatly pinned together. Some (early efforts, no doubt) were childishlysimple, but others were difficult, with allusive or punning clues; someof the ordinary newspaper type, others in the form of rhymed distichs.They scrutinised the solutions closely, and searched the definitionsfor acrostics or hidden words, unsuccessfully for a long time.

"This one's a funny one," said Mary, "nothing seems to fit. Oh! it'stwo pinned together. No, it isn't—yes, it is—it's only been pinnedup wrong. Peter, have you seen the puzzle belonging to these cluesanywhere?"

"What one's that?"

"Well, it's numbered rather funnily, with Roman and Arabic numerals,and it starts off with a thing that hasn't got any numbers at all:

"Frivolous old wretch!" said Miss Marryat.

"Friv—here, gimme that!" cried Lord Peter. "Look here, I say, MissMarryat, you oughtn't to have overlooked this."

"I thought it just belonged to that other square."

"Not it. It's different. I believe it's our thing. Listen:

That's one for you, Miss Marryat. Mary, hunt about. We must find thesquare that belongs to this."

But, though they turned everything upside-down, they could find nosquare with Roman and Arabic numerals.

"Hang it all!" said Peter, "it must be made to fit one of these others.Look! I know what he's done. He's just taken a fifteen-letter square,and numbered it with Roman figures one way and Arabic the other. I betit fits into that one it was pinned up with."

But the one it was pinned up with turned out to have only thirteensquares.

"Dash it all," said his lordship, "we'll have to carry the whole lotdown, and work away at it till we find the one it does fit."

He snatched up a great bundle of newspapers, and led the way out. Theothers followed, each with an armful. The search had taken some time,and the atrium was in semi-darkness.

"Where shall I take them?" asked Lord Peter, calling back over hisshoulder.

"Hi!" cried Mary; and, "Look where you're going!" cried her friend.

They were too late. A splash and a flounder proclaimed that Lord Peterhad walked, like Johnny Head-in-Air over the edge of the impluvium,papers and all.

"You ass!" said Mary.

His lordship scrambled out, spluttering, and Hannah Marryat suddenlyburst out into the first laugh Peter had ever heard her give.

she proclaimed.

"Well, I couldn't take my clothes off with you here, could I?" grumbledLord Peter. "We'll have to fish out the papers. I'm afraid they've gota bit damp."

Miss Marryat turned on the lights, and they started to clear the basin.

"Truth, poor girl——" began Lord Peter, and suddenly, with a littleshriek, began to dance on the marble edge of the impluvium.

"One, two, three, four, five, six——"

"Quite, quite demented," said Mary. "How shall I break it to mother?"

"Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen!" cried his lordship, and sat down,suddenly and damply, exhausted by his own excitement.

"Feeling better?" asked his sister acidly.

"I'm well. I'm all right. Everything's all right. I love UncleMeleager. Fifteen squares each way. Look at it. Look at it. Thetruth's in the water. Didn't he say so. Oh, frabjous day! Calloo!callay! I chortle. Mary, what became of those definitions?"

"They're in your pocket, all damp," said Mary.

Lord Peter snatched them out hurriedly.

"It's all right, they haven't run," he said. "Oh, darling UncleMeleager. Can you drain the impluvium, Miss Marryat, and find a bit ofcharcoal. Then I'll get some dry clothes on and we'll get down to it.Don't you see? There's your missing cross-word square—on the floorof the impluvium!"

It took, however, some time to get the basin emptied, and it was nottill next morning that the party, armed with sticks of charcoal,squatted down in the empty impluvium to fill in Uncle Meleager'scross-word on the marble tiles. Their first difficulty was to decidewhether the red squares counted as stops or had to be filled in, but,after a few definitions had been solved, the construction of the puzzlegrew apace. The investigators grew steadily hotter and more thicklycovered with charcoal, while the attentive Mr. Bunter hurried to andfro between the atrium and the library, and the dictionaries piled uponthe edge of the impluvium.

Here was Uncle Meleager's cross-word square:

Across.

"That's a hint to us," said Lord Peter.

"That's an easy one," said Miss Marryat.

Down.

"Bunter," said Lord Peter, "bring me a whisky-and-soda!"

"That's a comfort," said Lady Mary. "It shows we're on the right lines."

"That makes that point about the squares clear," said Mary.

"I think it's even more significant," said her brother.

The most remarkable part of the search—or so Lord Peter thought—wasits effect on Miss Marryat. At first she hovered disconsolately on themargin, aching with wounded dignity, yet ashamed to dissociate herselffrom people who were toiling so hard and so cheerfully in her cause.

"I think that's so-and-so," Mary would say hopefully.

And her brother would reply enthusiastically, "Holed it in one, oldlady. Good for you! We've got it this time, Miss Marryat"—and explainit.

And Hannah Marryat would say with a snort:

"That's just the childish kind of joke Uncle Meleager would make."

Gradually, however, the fascination of seeing the squares fit togethercaught her, and, when the first word appeared which showed that thesearchers were definitely on the right track, she lay down flat on thefloor and peered over Lord Peter's shoulder as he grovelled below,writing letters in charcoal, rubbing them out with his handkerchief andmopping his heated face, till the Moor of Venice had nothing on him inthe matter of blackness. Once, half scornfully, half timidly, she madea suggestion; twice, she made a suggestion; the third time she had aninspiration. The next minute she was down in the mêlée, crawling overthe tiles flushed and excited, wiping important letters out with herknees as fast as Peter could write them in, poring over the pages ofRoget, her eyes gleaming under her tumbled black fringe.

Hurried meals of cold meat and tea sustained the exhausted party, andtowards sunset Peter, with a shout of triumph, added the last letter tothe square.

They crawled out and looked at it.

"All the words can't be clues," said Mary. "I think it must be justthose four."

"Yes, undoubtedly. It's quite clear. We've only got to look it up.Where's a Bible?"

Miss Marryat hunted it out from the pile of reference books. "But thatisn't the name of a Bible book," she said. "It's those things they haveat evening service."

"That's all you know," said Lord Peter. "I was brought up religious, Iwas. It's Vulgate, that's what that is. You're quite right, of course,but, as Uncle Meleager says, we must 'look a little farther back thanthat.' Here you are. Now, then."

"But it doesn't say what chapter."

"So it doesn't. I mean, nor it does."

"And, anyhow, all the chapters are too short."

"Damn! Oh! Here, suppose we just count right on from thebeginning—one, two, three——"

"Seventeen in chapter one, eighteen, nineteen—this must be it."

Two fair heads and one dark one peered excitedly at the small print,Bunter hovering decorously on the outskirts.

"O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the covert of thesteep place."

"Oh, dear!" said Mary, disappointed, "that does sound rather hopeless.Are you sure you've counted right? It might mean anything."

Lord Peter scratched his head.

"This is a bit of a blow," he said. "I don't like Uncle Meleager halfas much as I did. Old beast!"

"After all our work!" moaned Mary.

"It must be right," cried Miss Marryat. "Perhaps there's some kind ofan anagram in it. We can't give up now!"

"Bravo!" said Lord Peter. "That's the spirit. 'Fraid we're in foranother outburst of frivolity, Miss Marryat."

"Well, it's been great fun," said Hannah Marryat.

"If you will excuse me," began the deferential voice of Bunter.

"I'd forgotten you, Bunter," said his lordship. "Of course you can putus right—you always can. Where have we gone wrong?"

"I was about to observe, my lord, that the words you mention do notappear to agree with my recollection of the passage in question. In mymother's Bible, my lord, it ran, I fancy, somewhat differently."

Lord Peter closed the volume and looked at the back of it.

"Naturally," he said, "you are right again, of course. This is aRevised Version. It's your fault, Miss Marryat. You would have aRevised Version. But can we imagine Uncle Meleager with one? No. Bringme Uncle Meleager's Bible."

"Come and look in the library," cried Miss Marryat, snatching him bythe hand and running. "Don't be so dreadfully calm."

On the centre of the library table lay a huge and venerableBible—reverend in age and tooled leather binding. Lord Peter's handscaressed it, for a noble old book was like a song to his soul. Soberedby its beauty, they turned the yellow pages over:

"In the clefts of the rocks, in the secret places of the stairs."

"Miss Marryat," said his lordship, "if your Uncle's will is notconcealed in the staircase, then—well, all I can say is, he's played arotten trick on us," he concluded lamely.

"Shall we try the main staircase, or the little one up to the porch?"

"Oh, the main one, I think. I hope it won't mean pulling it down. No.Somebody would have noticed if Uncle Meleager had done anything drasticin that way. It's probably quite a simple hiding-place. Wait a minute.Let's ask the housekeeper."

Mrs. Meakers was called, and perfectly remembered that about ninemonths previously Mr. Finch had pointed out to her a "kind of a cracklike" on the under surface of the staircase, and had had a man in tofill it up. Certainly, she could point out the exact place. There wasthe mark of the plaster filling quite clear.

"Hurray!" cried Lord Peter. "Bunter—a chisel or something. UncleMeleager, Uncle Meleager, we've got you! Miss Marryat, I thinkyours should be the hand to strike the blow. It's your staircase, youknow—at least, if we find the will, so if any destruction has to bedone it's up to you."

Breathless they stood round, while with a few blows the new plasterflaked off, disclosing a wide chink in the stonework. Hannah Marryatflung down hammer and chisel and groped in the gap.

"There's something," she gasped. "Lift me up; I can't reach. Oh, itis! it is! it is it!" And she withdrew her hand, grasping a long,sealed envelope, bearing the superscription:

Positively the LAST Will and Testament of Meleager Finch.

Miss Marryat gave a yodel of joy and flung her arms round Lord Peter'sneck.

Mary executed a joy-dance. "I'll tell the world," she proclaimed.

"Come and tell mother!" cried Miss Marryat.

Mr. Bunter interposed,

"Your lordship will excuse me," he said firmly, "but your lordship'sface is all over charcoal."

"Black but comely," said Lord Peter, "but I submit to your reproof.How clever we've all been. How topping everything is. How rich you aregoing to be. How late it is and how hungry I am. Yes, Bunter, I willwash my face. Is there anything else I can do for anybody while I feelin the mood?"

"If your lordship would be so kind," said Mr. Bunter, producing a smallpaper from his pocket, "I should be grateful if you could favour mewith a South African quadruped in six letters, beginning with Q."

Note.—The solution of the cross-word will be found at theend of the book.

THE FANTASTIC HORROR OF THE CAT IN THE BAG

The Great North Road wound away like a flat, steel-grey ribbon. Up it,with the sun and wind behind them, two black specks moved swiftly.To the yokel in charge of the hay-wagon they were only two of "theydratted motor-cyclists," as they barked and zoomed past him in rapidsuccession. A little farther on, a family man, driving delicately witha two-seater side-car, grinned as the sharp rattle of the o.h.v. Nortonwas succeeded by the feline shriek of an angry Scott Flying-Squirrel.He, too, in bachelor days, had taken a side in that perennial feud.He sighed regretfully as he watched the racing machines dwindle awaynorthwards.

At that abominable and unexpected S-bend across the bridge aboveHatfield, the Norton man, in the pride of his heart, turned to wave adefiant hand at his pursuer. In that second, the enormous bulk of aloaded charabanc loomed down upon him from the bridgehead. He wrenchedhimself away from it in a fierce wobble, and the Scott, corneringmelodramatically, with left and right foot-rests alternately skimmingthe tarmac, gained a few triumphant yards. The Norton leapt forwardwith wide-open throttle. A party of children, seized with sudden panic,rushed helter-skelter across the road. The Scott lurched through themin drunken swerves. The road was clear, and the chase settled down oncemore.

It is not known why motorists, who sing the joys of the open road,spend so much petrol every week-end grinding their way to Southend andBrighton and Margate, in the stench of each other's exhausts, one handon the horn and one foot on the brake, their eyes starting from theirorbits in the nerve-racking search for cops, corners, blind turnings,and cross-road suicides. They ride in a baffled fury, hating eachother. They arrive with shattered nerves and fight for parking places.They return, blinded by the headlights of fresh arrivals, whom theyhate even worse than they hate each other. And all the time the GreatNorth Road winds away like a long, flat, steel-grey ribbon—a surfacelike a race-track, without traps, without hedges, without side-roads,and without traffic. True, it leads to nowhere in particular; but,after all, one pub is very much like another.

The tarmac reeled away, mile after mile. The sharp turn to theright at Baldock, the involute intricacies of Biggleswade, with itsmultiplication of sign-posts, gave temporary check, but brought thepursuer no nearer. Through Tempsford at full speed, with bellowing hornand exhaust, then, screaming like a hurricane past the R.A.C. postwhere the road forks in from Bedford. The Norton rider again glancedback; the Scott rider again sounded his horn ferociously. Flat as achessboard, dyke and field revolved about the horizon.

The constable at Eaton Socon was by no means an anti-motor fiend. Infact, he had just alighted from his push-bike to pass the time of daywith the A.A. man on point duty at the cross-roads. But he was justand God-fearing. The sight of two maniacs careering at seventy milesan hour into his protectorate was more than he could be expected tocountenance—the more, that the local magistrate happened to be passingat that very moment in a pony-trap. He advanced to the middle of theroad, spreading his arms in a majestic manner. The Norton rider looked,saw the road beyond complicated by the pony-trap and a traction-engine,and resigned himself to the inevitable. He flung the throttle-leverback, stamped on his squealing brakes, and skidded to a standstill.The Scott, having had notice, came up mincingly, with a voice like apleased kitten.

"Now, then," said the constable, in a tone of reproof, "ain't you gotno more sense than to come drivin' into the town at a 'undred milean hour. This ain't Brooklands, you know. I never see anything likeit. 'Ave to take your names and numbers, if you please. You'll bearwitness, Mr. Nadgett, as they was doin' over eighty."

The A.A. man, after a swift glance over the two sets of handle-bars toassure himself that the black sheep were not of his flock, said, withan air of impartial accuracy, "About sixty-six and a half, I shouldsay, if you was to ask me in court."

"Look here, you blighter," said the Scott man indignantly to the Nortonman, "why the hell couldn't you stop when you heard me hoot? I've beenchasing you with your beastly bag nearly thirty miles. Why can't youlook after your own rotten luggage?"

He indicated a small, stout bag, tied with string to his own carrier.

"That?" said the Norton man, with scorn. "What do you mean? It's notmine. Never saw it in my life."

This bare-faced denial threatened to render the Scott rider speechless.

"Of all the——" he gasped. "Why, you crimson idiot, I saw it fall off,just the other side of Hatfield. I yelled and blew like fury. I supposethat overhead gear of yours makes so much noise you can't hear anythingelse. I take the trouble to pick the thing up, and go after you, andall you do is to race off like a lunatic and run me into a cop. Fat lotof thanks one gets for trying to be decent to fools on the road."

"That ain't neither here nor there," said the policeman. "Your licence,please, sir."

"Here you are," said the Scott man, ferociously flapping out hispocket-book. "My name's Walters, and it's the last time I'll try to doanybody a good turn, you can lay your shirt."

"Walters," said the constable, entering the particulars laboriously inhis notebook, "and Simpkins. You'll 'ave your summonses in doo course.It'll be for about a week 'ence, on Monday or thereabouts, I shouldn'twonder."

"Another forty bob gone west," growled Mr. Simpkins, toying with histhrottle. "Oh, well, can't be helped, I suppose."

"Forty bob?" snorted the constable. "What do you think? Furiousdriving to the common danger, that's wot it is. You'll be lucky to getoff with five quid apiece."

"Oh, blast!" said the other, stamping furiously on the kick-starter.The engine roared into life, but Mr. Walters dexterously swung hismachine across the Norton's path.

"Oh, no, you don't," he said viciously. "You jolly well take yourbleeding bag, and no nonsense. I tell you, I saw it fall off."

"Now, no language," began the constable, when he suddenly became awarethat the A.A. man was staring in a very odd manner at the bag andmaking signs to him.

"'Ullo," he demanded, "wot's the matter with the—bleedin' bag, did yousay? 'Ere, I'd like to 'ave a look at that 'ere bag, sir, if you don'tmind."

"It's nothing to do with me," said Mr. Walters, handing it over. "Isaw it fall off and——" His voice died away in his throat, and hiseyes became fixed upon one corner of the bag, where something damp andhorrible was seeping darkly through.

"Did you notice this 'ere corner when you picked it up?" asked theconstable. He prodded it gingerly and looked at his fingers.

"I don't know—no—not particularly," stammered Walters. "I didn'tnotice anything. I—I expect it burst when it hit the road."

The constable probed the split seam in silence, and then turnedhurriedly round to wave away a couple of young women who had stoppedto stare. The A.A. man peered curiously, and then started back with asensation of sickness.

"Ow, Gawd!" he gasped. "It's curly—it's a woman's."

"It's not me," screamed Simpkins. "I swear to heaven it's not mine.This man's trying to put it across me."

"Me?" gasped Walters. "Me? Why, you filthy, murdering brute, I tell youI saw it fall off your carrier. No wonder you blinded off when you sawme coming. Arrest him, constable. Take him away to prison——"

"Hullo, officer!" said a voice behind them. "What's all the excitement?You haven't seen a motor-cyclist go by with a little bag on hiscarrier, I suppose?"

A big open car with an unnaturally long bonnet had slipped up to them,silent as an owl. The whole agitated party with one accord turned uponthe driver.

"Would this be it, sir?"

The motorist pushed off his goggles, disclosing a long, narrow nose anda pair of rather cynical-looking grey eyes.

"It looks rather——" he began; and then, catching sight of the horridrelic protruding from one corner, "In God's name," he enquired, "what'sthat?"

"That's what we'd like to know, sir," said the constable grimly.

"H'm," said the motorist, "I seem to have chosen an uncommonly suitablemoment for enquirin' after my bag. Tactless. To say now that it is notmy bag is simple, though in no way convincing. As a matter of fact, itis not mine, and I may say that, if it had been, I should not have beenat any pains to pursue it."

The constable scratched his head.

"Both these gentlemen——" he began.

The two cyclists burst into simultaneous and heated disclaimers. Bythis time a small crowd had collected, which the A.A. scout helpfullytried to shoo away.

"You'll all 'ave to come with me to the station," said the harassedconstable. "Can't stand 'ere 'oldin' up the traffic. No tricks, now.You wheel them bikes, and I'll come in the car with you, sir."

"But supposing I was to let her rip and kidnap you," said the motorist,with a grin. "Where'd you be? Here," he added, turning to the A.A. man,"can you handle this outfit?"

"You bet," said the scout, his eye running lovingly over the long sweepof the exhaust and the rakish lines of the car.

"Right. Hop in. Now, officer, you can toddle along with the othersuspects and keep an eye on them. Wonderful head I've got for detail.By the way, that foot-brake's on the fierce side. Don't bully it, oryou'll surprise yourself."

The lock of the bag was forced at the police-station in the midst ofan excitement unparalleled in the calm annals of Eaton Socon, and thedreadful contents laid reverently upon a table. Beyond a quantity ofcheese-cloth in which they had been wrapped, there was nothing tosupply any clue to the mystery.

"Now," said the superintendent, "what do you gentlemen know about this?"

"Nothing whatever," said Mr. Simpkins, with a ghastly countenance,"except that this man tried to palm it off on me."

"I saw it fall off this man's carrier just the other side of Hatfield,"repeated Mr. Walters firmly, "and I rode after him for thirty milestrying to stop him. That's all I know about it, and I wish to God I'dnever touched the beastly thing."

"Nor do I know anything about it personally," said the car-owner, "butI fancy I know what it is."

"What's that?" asked the superintendent sharply.

"I rather imagine it's the head of the Finsbury Park murder—though,mind you, that's only a guess."

"That's just what I've been thinking myself," agreed thesuperintendent, glancing at a daily paper which lay on his desk, itsheadlines lurid with the details of that very horrid crime, "and,if so, you are to be congratulated, constable, on a very importantcapture."

"Thank you, sir," said the gratified officer, saluting.

"Now I'd better take all your statements," said the superintendent."No, no; I'll hear the constable first. Yes, Briggs?"

The constable, the A.A. man, and the two motor-cyclists having giventheir versions of the story, the superintendent turned to the motorist.

"And what have you got to say about it?" he enquired. "First of all,your name and address."

The other produced a card, which the superintendent copied out andreturned to him respectfully.

"A bag of mine, containing some valuable jewellery, was stolen frommy car yesterday, in Piccadilly," began the motorist. "It is verymuch like this, but has a cipher lock. I made enquiries throughScotland Yard, and was informed to-day that a bag of precisely similarappearance had been cloak-roomed yesterday afternoon at Paddington,main line. I hurried round there, and was told by the clerk that justbefore the police warning came through the bag had been claimed bya man in motor-cycling kit. A porter said he saw the man leave thestation, and a loiterer observed him riding off on a motor-bicycle.That was about an hour before. It seemed pretty hopeless, as, ofcourse, nobody had noticed even the make of the bike, let alone thenumber. Fortunately, however, there was a smart little girl. The smartlittle girl had been dawdling round outside the station, and had hearda motor-cyclist ask a taxi-driver the quickest route to Finchley. Ileft the police hunting for the taxi-driver, and started off, and inFinchley I found an intelligent boy-scout. He had seen a motor-cyclistwith a bag on the carrier, and had waved and shouted to him that thestrap was loose. The cyclist had got off and tightened the strap, andgone straight on up the road towards Chipping Barnet. The boy hadn'tbeen near enough to identify the machine—the only thing he knew forcertain was that it wasn't a Douglas, his brother having one of thatsort. At Barnet I got an odd little story of a man in a motor-coat whohad staggered into a pub with a ghastly white face and drunk two doublebrandies and gone out and ridden off furiously. Number?—of course not.The barmaid told me. She didn't notice the number. After that it wasa tale of furious driving all along the road. After Hatfield, I got thestory of a road-race. And here we are."

"It seems to me, my lord," said the superintendent, "that the furiousdriving can't have been all on one side."

"I admit it," said the other, "though I do plead in extenuation that Ispared the women and children and hit up the miles in the wide, openspaces. The point at the moment is——"

"Well, my lord," said the superintendent, "I've got your story, and,if it's all right, it can be verified by enquiry at Paddington andFinchley and so on. Now, as for these two gentlemen——"

"It's perfectly obvious," broke in Mr. Walters, "the bag dropped offthis man's carrier, and, when he saw me coming after him with it, hethought it was a good opportunity to saddle me with the cursed thing.Nothing could be clearer."

"It's a lie," said Mr. Simpkins. "Here's this fellow has got hold ofthe bag—I don't say how, but I can guess—and he has the bright ideaof shoving the blame on me. It's easy enough to say a thing's fallenoff a man's carrier. Where's the proof? Where's the strap? If hisstory's true, you'd find the broken strap on my 'bus. The bag was onhis machine—tied on, tight."

"Yes, with string," retorted the other. "If I'd gone and murderedsomeone and run off with their head, do you think I'd be such an ass asto tie it on with a bit of twopenny twine? The strap's worked loose andfallen off on the road somewhere; that's what's happened to that."

"Well, look here," said the man addressed as "my lord," "I've got anidea for what it's worth. Suppose, superintendent, you turn out as manyof your men as you think adequate to keep an eye on three desperatecriminals, and we all tool down to Hatfield together. I can take two inmy 'bus at a pinch, and no doubt you have a police car. If this thingdid fall off the carrier, somebody beside Mr. Walters may have seenit fall."

"They didn't," said Mr. Simpkins.

"There wasn't a soul," said Mr. Walters, "but how do you know therewasn't, eh? I thought you didn't know anything about it."

"I mean, it didn't fall off, so nobody could have seen it," gaspedthe other.

"Well, my lord," said the superintendent, "I'm inclined to accept yoursuggestion, as it gives us a chance of enquiring into your story atthe same time. Mind you, I'm not saying I doubt it, you being who youare. I've read about some of your detective work, my lord, and verysmart I considered it. But, still, it wouldn't be my duty not to getcorroborative evidence if possible."

"Good egg! Quite right," said his lordship. "Forward the light brigade.We can do it easily in—that is to say, at the legal rate of progressit needn't take us much over an hour and a half."

About three-quarters of an hour later, the racing car and the policecar loped quietly side by side into Hatfield. Henceforward, thefour-seater, in which Walters and Simpkins sat glaring at each other,took the lead, and presently Walters waved his hand and both cars cameto a stop.

"It was just about here, as near as I can remember, that it fell off,"he said. "Of course, there's no trace of it now."

"You're quite sure as there wasn't a strap fell off with it?" suggestedthe superintendent, "because, you see, there must 'a' been somethingholding it on."

"Of course there wasn't a strap," said Simpkins, white with passion."You haven't any business to ask him leading questions like that."

"Wait a minute," said Walters slowly. "No, there was no strap. But I'vegot a sort of a recollection of seeing something on the road about aquarter of a mile farther up."

"It's a lie!" screamed Simpkins. "He's inventing it."

"Just about where we passed that man with the side-car a minute or twoago," said his lordship. "I told you we ought to have stopped and askedif we could help him, superintendent. Courtesy of the road, you know,and all that."

"He couldn't have told us anything," said the superintendent. "He'dprobably only just stopped."

"I'm not so sure," said the other. "Didn't you notice what he wasdoing? Oh, dear, dear, where were your eyes? Hullo! here he comes."

He sprang out into the road and waved to the rider, who, seeing fourpolicemen, thought it better to pull up.

"Excuse me," said his lordship. "Thought we'd just like to stop you andask if you were all right, and all that sort of thing, you know. Wantedto stop in passing, throttle jammed open, couldn't shut the confoundedthing. Little trouble, what?"

"Oh, yes, perfectly all right, thanks, except that I would be glad ifyou could spare a gallon of petrol. Tank came adrift. Beastly nuisance.Had a bit of a struggle. Happily, Providence placed a broken strap inmy way and I've fixed it. Split a bit, though, where that bolt cameoff. Lucky not to have an explosion, but there's a special cherub formotor-cyclists."

"Strap, eh?" said the superintendent. "Afraid I'll have to trouble youto let me have a look at that."

"What?" said the other. "And just as I've got the damned thing fixed?What the——? All right, dear, all right"—to his passenger. "Is itsomething serious, officer?"

"Afraid so, sir. Sorry to trouble you."

"Hi!" yelled one of the policemen, neatly fielding Mr. Simpkins as hewas taking a dive over the back of the car. "No use doin' that. You'refor it, my lad."

"No doubt about it," said the superintendent triumphantly, snatching atthe strap which the side-car rider held out to him. "Here's his name onit, 'J. Simpkins,' written on in ink as large as life. Verymuch obliged to you, sir, I'm sure. You've helped us effect a veryimportant capture."

"No! Who is it?" cried the girl in the side-car. "How frightfullythrilling! Is it a murder?"

"Look in your paper to-morrow, miss," said the superintendent, "and youmay see something. Here, Briggs, better put the handcuffs on him."

"And how about my tank?" said the man mournfully. "It's all right foryou to be excited, Babs, but you'll have to get out and help push."

"Oh, no," said his lordship. "Here's a strap. A much nicer strap. Areally superior strap. And petrol. And a pocket-flask. Everything ayoung man ought to know. And, when you're in town, mind you both lookme up. Lord Peter Wimsey, 110A Piccadilly. Delighted to seeyou any time. Chin, chin!"

"Cheerio!" said the other, wiping his lips and much mollified. "Onlytoo charmed to be of use. Remember it in my favour, officer, next timeyou catch me speeding."

"Very fortunate we spotted him," said the superintendent complacently,as they continued their way into Hatfield. "Quite providential, as youmight say."

"I'll come across with it," said the wretched Simpkins, sittinghand-cuffed in the Hatfield police-station. "I swear to God I knownothing whatever about it—about the murder, I mean. There's a manI know who has a jewellery business in Birmingham. I don't know himvery well. In fact, I only met him at Southend last Easter, and we gotpally. His name's Owen—Thomas Owen. He wrote me yesterday and saidhe'd accidentally left a bag in the cloakroom at Paddington and askedif I'd take it out—he enclosed the ticket—and bring it up next timeI came that way. I'm in transport service, you see—you've got mycard—and I'm always up and down the country. As it happened, I wasjust going up in that direction with this Norton, so I fetched thething out at lunch-time and started off with it. I didn't notice thedate on the cloakroom ticket. I know there wasn't anything to pay onit, so it can't have been there long. Well, it all went just as yousaid up to Finchley, and there that boy told me my strap was loose andI went to tighten it up. And then I noticed that the corner of thebag was split, and it was damp—and—well, I saw what you saw. Thatsort of turned me over, and I lost my head. The only thing I couldthink of was to get rid of it, quick. I remembered there were a lot oflonely stretches on the Great North Road, so I cut the strap nearlythrough—that was when I stopped for that drink at Barnet—and then,when I thought there wasn't anybody in sight, I just reached back andgave it a tug, and it went—strap and all; I hadn't put it through theslots. It fell off, just like a great weight dropping off my mind. Isuppose Walters must just have come round into sight as it fell. Ihad to slow down a mile or two farther on for some sheep going into afield, and then I heard him hooting at me—and—oh, my God!"

He groaned, and buried his head in his hands.

"I see," said the Eaton Socon superintendent. "Well, that's yourstatement. Now, about this Thomas Owen——"

"Oh," cried Lord Peter Wimsey, "never mind Thomas Owen. He's not theman you want. You can't suppose that a bloke who'd committed a murderwould want a fellow tailin' after him to Birmingham with the head. Itstands to reason that was intended to stay in Paddington cloakroom tillthe ingenious perpetrator had skipped, or till it was unrecognisable,or both. Which, by the way, is where we'll find those family heirloomsof mine, which your engaging friend Mr. Owen lifted out of my car. Now,Mr. Simpkins, just pull yourself together and tell us who was standingnext to you at the cloakroom when you took out that bag. Try hard toremember, because this jolly little island is no place for him, andhe'll be taking the next boat while we stand talking."

"I can't remember," moaned Simpkins. "I didn't notice. My head's all ina whirl."

"Never mind. Go back. Think quietly. Make a picture of yourself gettingoff your machine—leaning it up against something——"

"No, I put it on the stand."

"Good! That's the way. Now, think—you're taking the cloakroom ticketout of your pocket and going up—trying to attract the man's attention."

"I couldn't at first. There was an old lady trying to cloakroom acanary, and a very bustling man in a hurry with some golf-clubs. Hewas quite rude to a quiet little man with a—by Jove! yes, a hand-baglike that one. Yes, that's it. The timid man had had it on the counterquite a long time, and the big man pushed him aside. I don't know whathappened, quite, because mine was handed out to me just then. The bigman pushed his luggage in front of both of us and I had to reach overit—and I suppose—yes, I must have taken the wrong one. Good God! Doyou mean to say that that timid little insignificant-looking man was amurderer?"

"Lots of 'em like that," put in the Hatfield superintendent. "But whatwas he like—come!"

"He was only about five foot five, and he wore a soft hat anda long, dust-coloured coat. He was very ordinary, with ratherweak, prominent eyes, I think, but I'm not sure I should know himagain. Oh, wait a minute! I do remember one thing. He had an oddscar—crescent-shaped—under his left eye."

"That settles it," said Lord Peter. "I thought as much. Did yourecognise the—the face when we took it out, superintendent? No? I did.It was Dahlia Dallmeyer, the actress, who is supposed to have sailedfor America last week. And the short man with the crescent-shaped scaris her husband, Philip Storey. Sordid tale and all that. She ruinedhim, treated him like dirt, and was unfaithful to him, but it looks asthough he had had the last word in the argument. And now, I imagine,the Law will have the last word with him. Get busy on the wires,superintendent, and you might ring up the Paddington people and tell'em to let me have my bag, before Mr. Thomas Owen tumbles to it thatthere's been a slight mistake."

"Well, anyhow," said Mr. Walters, extending a magnanimous hand to theabashed Mr. Simpkins, "it was a top-hole race—well worth a summons. Wemust have a return match one of these days."

Early the following morning a little, insignificant-looking man steppedaboard the trans-Atlantic liner Volucria. At the head of the gangwaytwo men blundered into him. The younger of the two, who carried a smallbag, was turning to apologise, when a light of recognition flashedacross his face.

"Why, if it isn't Mr. Storey!" he exclaimed loudly. "Where are you offto? I haven't seen you for an age."

"I'm afraid," said Philip Storey, "I haven't the pleasure——"

"Cut it out," said the other, laughing. "I'd know that scar of yoursanywhere. Going out to the States?"

"Well, yes," said the other, seeing that his acquaintance's boisterousmanner was attracting attention. "I beg your pardon. It's Lord PeterWimsey, isn't it? Yes. I'm joining the wife out there."

"And how is she?" enquired Wimsey, steering the way into the bar andsitting down at a table. "Left last week didn't she? I saw it in thepapers."

"Yes. She's just cabled me to join her. We're—er—taking a holidayin—er—the lakes. Very pleasant there in summer."

"Cabled you, did she? And so here we are on the same boat. Odd howthings turn out, what? I only got my sailing orders at the last minute.Chasing criminals—my hobby, you know."

"Oh, really?" Mr. Storey licked his lips.

"Yes. This is Detective-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard—great palof mine. Yes. Very unpleasant matter, annoying and all that. Bag thatought to have been reposin' peacefully at Paddington Station turns upat Eaton Socon. No business there, what?"

He smacked the bag on the table so violently that the lock sprang open.

Storey leapt to his feet with a shriek, flinging his arms across theopening of the bag as though to hide its contents.

"How did you get that?" he screamed. "Eaton Socon? It—I never——"

"It's mine," said Wimsey quietly, as the wretched man sank back,realising that he had betrayed himself. "Some jewellery of my mother's.What did you think it was?"

Detective Parker touched his charge gently on the shoulder.

"You needn't answer that," he said. "I arrest you, Philip Storey, forthe murder of your wife. Anything that you say may be used against you."

THE UNPRINCIPLED AFFAIR OF THE PRACTICAL JOKER

The Zambesi, they said, was expected to dock at six in the morning.Mrs. Ruyslaender booked a bedroom at the Magnifical, with despair inher heart. A bare nine hours and she would be greeting her husband.After that would begin the sickening period of waiting—it might bedays, it might be weeks, possibly even months—for the inevitablediscovery.

The reception-clerk twirled the register towards her. Mechanically, asshe signed it, she glanced at the preceding entry:

"Lord Peter Wimsey and valet—London—Suite 24."

Mrs. Ruyslaender's heart seemed to stop for a second. Was it possiblethat, even now, God had left a loophole? She expected little fromHim—all her life He had shown Himself a sufficiently stern creditor.It was fantastic to base the frailest hope on this signature of a manshe had never even seen.

Yet the name remained in her mind while she dined in her own room. Shedismissed her maid presently, and sat for a long time looking at herown haggard reflection in the mirror. Twice she rose and went to thedoor—then turned back, calling herself a fool. The third time sheturned the handle quickly and hurried down the corridor, without givingherself time to think.

A large golden arrow at the corner directed her to Suite 24. It was11 o'clock, and nobody was within view. Mrs. Ruyslaender gave a sharpknock on Lord Peter Wimsey's door and stood back, waiting, with thesort of desperate relief one experiences after hearing a dangerousletter thump the bottom of the pillar-box. Whatever the adventure, shewas committed to it.

The manservant was of the imperturbable sort. He neither invited norrejected, but stood respectfully upon the threshold.

"Lord Peter Wimsey?" murmured Mrs. Ruyslaender.

"Yes, madam."

"Could I speak to him for a moment?"

"His Lordship has just retired, madam. If you will step in, I willenquire."

Mrs. Ruyslaender followed him into one of those palatial sitting-roomswhich the Magnifical provides for the wealthy pilgrim.

"Will you take a seat, madam?"

The man stepped noiselessly to the bedroom door and passed in, shuttingit behind him. The lock, however, failed to catch, and Mrs. Ruyslaendercaught the conversation.

"Pardon me, my lord, a lady has called. She mentioned no appointment,so I considered it better to acquaint your lordship."

"Excellent discretion," said a voice. It had a slow, sarcasticintonation, which brought a painful flush to Mrs. Ruyslaender's cheek."I never make appointments. Do I know the lady?"

"No, my lord. But—hem—I know her by sight, my lord. It is Mrs.Ruyslaender."

"Oh, the diamond-merchant's wife. Well, find out tactfully what it'sall about, and, unless it's urgent, ask her to call to-morrow."

The valet's next remark was inaudible, but the reply was:

"Don't be coarse, Bunter."

The valet returned.

"His lordship desires me to ask you, madam, in what way he can be ofservice to you?"

"Will you say to him that I have heard of him in connection with theAttenbury diamond case, and am anxious to ask his advice."

"Certainly, madam. May I suggest that, as his lordship is greatlyfatigued, he would be better able to assist you after he has slept."

"If to-morrow would have done, I would not have thought of disturbinghim to-night. Tell him, I am aware of the trouble I am giving——"

"Excuse me one moment, madam."

This time the door shut properly. After a short interval Bunterreturned to say, "His lordship will be with you immediately, madam,"and to place a decanter of wine and a box of Sobranies beside her.

Mrs. Ruyslaender lit a cigarette, but had barely sampled its flavourwhen she was aware of a soft step beside her. Looking round, sheperceived a young man, attired in a mauve dressing-gown of greatsplendour, from beneath the hem of which peeped coyly a pair ofprimrose silk pyjamas.

"You must think it very strange of me, thrusting myself on you at thishour," she said, with a nervous laugh.

Lord Peter put his head on one side.

"Don't know the answer to that," he said. "If I say, 'Not at all,' itsounds abandoned. If I say, 'Yes, very,' it's rude. Supposin' we giveit a miss, what? and you tell me what I can do for you."

Mrs. Ruyslaender hesitated. Lord Peter was not what she had expected.She noted the sleek, straw-coloured hair, brushed flat back from arather sloping forehead, the ugly, lean, arched nose, and the faintlyfoolish smile, and her heart sank within her.

"I—I'm afraid it's ridiculous of me to suppose you can help me," shebegan.

"Always my unfortunate appearance," moaned Lord Peter, with suchalarming acumen as to double her discomfort. "Would it inviteconfidence more, d'you suppose, if I dyed my hair black an' grew aNewgate fringe? It's very tryin', you can't think, always to look as ifone's name was Algy."

"I only meant," said Mrs. Ruyslaender, "that I don't think anybodycould possibly help. But I saw your name in the hotel book, and itseemed just a chance."

Lord Peter filled the glasses and sat down.

"Carry on," he said cheerfully; "it sounds interestin'."

Mrs. Ruyslaender took the plunge.

"My husband," she explained, "is Henry Ruyslaender, the diamondmerchant. We came over from Kimberley ten years ago, and settled inEngland. He spends several months in Africa every year on business, andI am expecting him back on the Zambesi to-morrow morning. Now, thisis the trouble. Last year he gave me a magnificent diamond necklace ofa hundred and fifteen stones——"

"The Light of Africa—I know," said Wimsey.

She looked a little surprised, but assented. "The necklace has beenstolen from me, and I can't hope to conceal the loss from him. Noduplicate would deceive him for an instant."

She paused, and Lord Peter prompted gently:

"You have come to me, I presume, because it is not to be a policematter. Will you tell me quite frankly why?"

"The police would be useless. I know who took it."

"Yes?"

"There is a man we both know slightly—a man called Paul Melville."

Lord Peter's eyes narrowed. "M'm, yes, I fancy I've seen him aboutthe clubs. New Army, but transferred himself into the Regulars. Dark.Showy. Bit of an ampelopsis, what?"

"Ampelopsis?"

"Surburban plant that climbs by suction. You know—first year, tenderlittle shoots—second year, fine show—next year, all over the shop.Now tell me I am rude."

Mrs. Ruyslaender giggled. "Now you mention it, he is exactly likean ampelopsis. What a relief to be able to think of him as that....Well, he is some sort of distant relation of my husband's. He calledone evening when I was alone. We talked about jewels, and I broughtdown my jewel-box and showed him the Light of Africa. He knows a gooddeal about stones. I was in and out of the room two or three times,but didn't think to lock up the box. After he left, I was putting thethings away, and I opened the jeweller's case the diamonds were in—andthey had gone!"

"H'm—pretty bare-faced. Look here, Mrs. Ruyslaender, you agree he's anampelopsis, but you won't call in the police. Honestly, now—forgiveme; you're askin' my advice, you know—is he worth botherin' about?"

"It's not that," said the woman, in a low tone. "Oh, no! But he tooksomething else as well. He took—a portrait—a small painting set withdiamonds."

"Oh!"

"Yes. It was in a secret drawer in the jewel-box. I can't imagine howhe knew it was there, but the box was an old casket, belonging to myhusband's family, and I fancy he must have known about the drawerand—well, thought that investigation might prove profitable. Anyway,the evening the diamonds went the portrait went too, and he knows Idaren't try to get the necklace back because they'd both be foundtogether."

"Was there something more than just the portrait, then? A portrait initself isn't necessarily hopeless of explanation. It was given you totake care of, say."

"The names were on it—and—and an inscription which nothing, nothingcould ever explain away. A—a passage from Petronius."

"Oh, dear!" said Lord Peter, "dear me, yes. Rather a lively author."

"I was married very young," said Mrs. Ruyslaender, "and my husband andI have never got on well. Then one year, when he was in Africa, it allhappened. We were wonderful—and shameless. It came to an end. I wasbitter. I wish I had not been. He left me, you see, and I couldn'tforgive it. I prayed day and night for revenge. Only now—I don't wantit to be through me!"

"Wait a moment," said Wimsey, "you mean that, if the diamonds are foundand the portrait is found too, all this story is bound to come out."

"My husband would get a divorce. He would never forgive me—or him. Itis not so much that I mind paying the price myself, but——"

She clenched her hands.

"I have cursed him again and again, and the clever girl who marriedhim. She played her cards so well. This would ruin them both."

"But if you were the instrument of vengeance," said Wimsey gently,"you would hate yourself. And it would be terrible to you because hewould hate you. A woman like you couldn't stoop to get your own back. Isee that. If God makes a thunderbolt, how awful and satisfying—if youhelp to make a beastly row, what a rotten business it would be."

"You seem to understand," said Mrs. Ruyslaender. "How unusual."

"I understand perfectly. Though let me tell you," said Wimsey, witha wry little twist of the lips, "that it's sheer foolishness for awoman to have a sense of honour in such matters. It only gives herexcruciating pain, and nobody expects it, anyway. Look here, don'tlet's get all worked up. You certainly shan't have your vengeancethrust upon you by an ampelopsis. Why should you? Nasty fellow. We'llhave him up—root, branch, and little suckers. Don't worry. Let's see.My business here will only take a day. Then I've got to get to knowMelville—say a week. Then I've got to get the doings—say anotherweek, provided he hasn't sold them yet, which isn't likely. Can youhold your husband off 'em for a fortnight, d'you think?"

"Oh, yes. I'll say they're in the country, or being cleaned, orsomething. But do you really think you can——?"

"I'll have a jolly good try, anyhow, Mrs. Ruyslaender. Is the fellowhard up, to start stealing diamonds?"

"I fancy he has got into debt over horses lately. And possibly poker."

"Oh! Poker player, is he? That makes an excellent excuse for gettin' toknow him. Well, cheer up—we'll get the goods, even if we have to buy'em. But we won't, if we can help it. Bunter!"

"My lord?" The valet appeared from the inner room.

"Just go an' give the 'All Clear,' will you?"

Mr. Bunter accordingly stepped into the passage, and, having seen anold gentleman safely away to the bathroom and a young lady in a pinkkimono pop her head out of an adjacent door and hurriedly pop it backon beholding him, blew his nose with a loud, trumpeting sound.

"Good night," said Mrs. Ruyslaender, "and thank you."

She slipped back to her room unobserved.

"Whatever has induced you, my dear boy," said Colonel Marchbanks, "totake up with that very objectionable fellow Melville?"

"Diamonds," said Lord Peter. "Do you find him so, really?"

"Perfectly dreadful man," said the Hon. Frederick Arbuthnot. "Hearts.What did you want to go and get him a room here for? This used to be aquite decent club."

"Two clubs?" said Sir Impey Biggs, who had been ordering a whisky, andhad only caught the last word.

"No, no, one heart."

"I beg your pardon. Well, partner, how about spades? Perfectly goodsuit."

"Pass," said the Colonel. "I don't know what the Army's coming tonowadays."

"No trumps," said Wimsey. "It's all right, children. Trust your UnclePete. Come on, Freddy, how many of those hearts are you going to shoutfor?"

"None, the Colonel havin' let me down so 'orrid," said the Hon. Freddy.

"Cautious blighter. All content? Righty-ho! Bring out your dead,partner. Oh, very pretty indeed. We'll make it a slam this time. I'mrather glad to hear that expression of opinion from you, Colonel,because I particularly want you and Biggy to hang on this evening andtake a hand with Melville and me."

"What happens to me?" enquired the Hon. Freddy.

"You have an engagement and go home early, dear old thing. I'vespecially invited friend Melville to meet the redoubtable ColonelMarchbanks and our greatest criminal lawyer. Which hand am I supposedto be playin' this from? Oh, yes. Come on, Colonel—you've got to hikethat old king out some time, why not now?"

"It's a plot," said Mr. Arbuthnot, with an exaggerated expression ofmystery. "Carry on, don't mind me."

"I take it you have your own reasons for cultivating the man," said SirImpey.

"The rest are mine, I fancy. Well, yes, I have. You and the Colonelwould really do me a favour by letting Melville cut in to-night."

"If you wish it," growled the Colonel, "but I hope the impudent youngbeggar won't presume on the acquaintance."

"I'll see to that," said his lordship. "Your cards, Freddy. Who hadthe ace of hearts? Oh! I had it myself, of course. Our honours....Hullo! Evenin', Melville."

The ampelopsis was rather a good-looking creature in his own way. Talland bronzed, with a fine row of very persuasive teeth. He greetedWimsey and Arbuthnot heartily, the Colonel with a shade too muchfamiliarity, and expressed himself delighted to be introduced to SirImpey Biggs.

"You're just in time to hold Freddy's hand," said Wimsey; "he's got adate. Not his little paddy-paw, I don't mean—but the dam' rotten handhe generally gets dealt him. Joke."

"Oh, well," said the obedient Freddy, rising, "I s'pose I'd better makea noise like a hoop and roll away. Night, night, everybody."

Melville took his place, and the game continued with varying fortunesfor two hours, at the end of which time Colonel Marchbanks, who hadsuffered much under his partner's eloquent theory of the game, wasbeginning to wilt visibly.

Wimsey yawned.

"Gettin' a bit bored, Colonel? Wish they'd invent somethin' to liventhis game up a bit."

"Oh, Bridge is a one-horse show, anyway," said Melville. "Why not havea little flutter at poker, Colonel? Do you all the good in the world.What d'you say, Biggs?"

Sir Impey turned on Wimsey a thoughtful eye, accustomed to thesizing-up of witnesses. Then he replied:

"I'm quite willing, if the others are."

"Damn good idea," said Lord Peter. "Come now, Colonel, be a sport.You'll find the chips in that drawer, I think. I always lose money atpoker, but what's the odds so long as you're happy. Let's have a newpack."

"Any limit?"

"What do you say, Colonel?"

The Colonel proposed a twenty-shilling limit. Melville, with a grimace,amended this to one-tenth of the pool. The amendment was carried andthe cards cut, the deal falling to the Colonel.

Contrary to his own prophecy, Wimsey began by winning considerably, andgrew so garrulously imbecile in the process that even the experiencedMelville began to wonder whether this indescribable fatuity was thecloak of ignorance or the mask of the hardened poker-player. Soon,however, he was reassured. The luck came over to his side, and he foundhimself winning hands down, steadily from Sir Impey and the Colonel,who played cautiously and took little risk—heavily from Wimsey, whoappeared reckless and slightly drunk, and was staking foolishly onquite impossible cards.

"I never knew such luck as yours, Melville," said Sir Impey, when thatyoung man had scooped in the proceeds from a handsome straight-flush.

"My turn to-night, yours to-morrow," said Melville, pushing the cardsacross to Biggs, whose deal it was.

Colonel Marchbanks required one card. Wimsey laughed vacantly anddemanded an entirely fresh hand; Biggs asked for three; and Melville,after a pause for consideration, took one.

It seemed as though everybody had something respectable thistime—though Wimsey was not to be depended upon, frequently going thelimit upon a pair of jacks in order, as he expressed it, to keep thepot a-boiling. He became peculiarly obstinate now, throwing his chipsin with a flushed face, in spite of Melville's confident air.

The Colonel got out, and after a short time Biggs followed his example.Melville held on till the pool mounted to something under a hundredpounds, when Wimsey suddenly turned restive and demanded to see him.

"Four kings," said Melville.

"Blast you!" said Lord Peter, laying down four queens. "No holdin' thisfeller to-night, is there? Here, take the ruddy cards, Melville, andgive somebody else a look in, will you."

He shuffled them as he spoke, and handed them over. Melville dealt,satisfied the demands of the other three players, and was in the actof taking three new cards for himself, when Wimsey gave a suddenexclamation, and shot a swift hand across the table.

"Hullo! Melville," he said, in a chill tone which bore no resemblanceto his ordinary speech, "what exactly does this mean?"

He lifted Melville's left arm clear of the table and, with a sharpgesture, shook it. From the sleeve something fluttered to the table andglided away to the floor. Colonel Marchbanks picked it up, and in adreadful silence laid the joker on the table.

"Good God!" said Sir Impey.

"You young blackguard!" gasped the Colonel, recovering speech.

"What the hell do you mean by this?" gasped Melville, with a face likechalk. "How dare you! This is a trick—a plant——" A horrible furygripped him. "You dare to say that I have been cheating. You liar! Youfilthy sharper. You put it there. I tell you, gentlemen," he cried,looking desperately round the table, "he must have put it there."

"Come, come," said Colonel Marchbanks, "no good carryin' on that way,Melville. Dear me, no good at all. Only makes matters worse. We all sawit, you know. Dear, dear, I don't know what the Army's coming to."

"Do you mean you believe it?" shrieked Melville. "For God's sake,Wimsey, is this a joke or what? Biggs—you've got a head on yourshoulders—are you going to believe this half-drunk fool and thisdoddering old idiot who ought to be in his grave?"

"That language won't do you any good, Melville," said Sir Impey. "I'mafraid we all saw it clearly enough."

"I've been suspectin' this some time, y'know," said Wimsey. "That'swhy I asked you two to stay to-night. We don't want to make a publicrow, but——"

"Gentlemen," said Melville more soberly, "I swear to you that I amabsolutely innocent of this ghastly thing. Can't you believe me?"

"I can believe the evidence of my own eyes, sir," said the Colonel,with some heat.

"For the good of the club," said Wimsey, "this couldn't go on,but—also for the good of the club—I think we should all prefer thematter to be quietly arranged. In the face of what Sir Impey and theColonel can witness, Melville, I'm afraid your protestations are notlikely to be credited."

Melville looked from the soldier's face to that of the great criminallawyer.

"I don't know what your game is," he said sullenly to Wimsey, "but Ican see you've laid a trap and pulled it off all right."

"I think, gentlemen," said Wimsey, "that, if I might have a word inprivate with Melville in his own room, I could get the thing settledsatisfactorily, without undue fuss."

"He'll have to resign his commission," growled the Colonel.

"I'll put it to him in that light," said Peter. "May we go to your roomfor a minute, Melville?"

With a lowering brow, the young soldier led the way. Once alone withWimsey, he turned furiously on him.

"What do you want? What do you mean by making this monstrous charge?I'll take action for libel!"

"Do," said Wimsey coolly, "if you think anybody is likely to believeyour story."

He lit a cigarette, and smiled lazily at the angry young man.

"Well, what's the meaning of it, anyway?"

"The meaning," said Wimsey, "is simply that you, an officer and amember of this club, have been caught red-handed cheating at cardswhile playing for money, the witnesses being Sir Impey Biggs, ColonelMarchbanks, and myself. Now, I suggest to you, Captain Melville, thatyour best plan is to let me take charge of Mrs. Ruyslaender's diamondnecklace and portrait, and then just to trickle away quiet-like fromthese halls of dazzlin' light—without any questions asked."

Melville leapt to his feet.

"My God!" he cried. "I can see it now. It's blackmail."

"You may certainly call it blackmail, and theft too," said Lord Peter,with a shrug. "But why use ugly names? I hold five aces, you see.Better chuck in your hand."

"Suppose I say I never heard of the diamonds?"

"It's a bit late now, isn't it?" said Wimsey affably. "But, in thatcase, I'm beastly sorry and all that, of course, but we shall have tomake to-night's business public."

"Damn you!" muttered Melville, "you sneering devil."

He showed all his white teeth, half springing, with crouched shoulders.Wimsey waited quietly, his hands in his pockets.

The rush did not come. With a furious gesture, Melville pulled out hiskeys and unlocked his dressing-case.

"Take them," he growled, flinging a small parcel on the table; "you'vegot me. Take 'em and go to hell."

"Eventually—why not now?" murmured his lordship. "Thanks frightfully.Man of peace myself, you know—hate unpleasantness and all that." Hescrutinised his booty carefully, running the stones expertly betweenhis fingers. Over the portrait he pursed up his lips. "Yes," hemurmured, "that would have made a row." He replaced the wrapping andslipped the parcel into his pocket.

"Well, good night, Melville—and thanks for a pleasant game."

"I say, Biggs," said Wimsey, when he had returned to the card-room."You've had a lot of experience. What tactics d'you think one'sjustified in usin' with a blackmailer?"

"Ah!" said the K.C. "There you've put your finger on Society's soreplace, where the Law is helpless. Speaking as a man, I'd say nothingcould be too bad for the brute. It's a crime crueller and infinitelyworse in its results than murder. As a lawyer, I can only say that Ihave consistently refused to defend a blackmailer or to prosecute anypoor devil who does away with his tormentor."

"H'm," replied Wimsey. "What do you say, Colonel?"

"A man like that's a filthy pest," said the little warrior stoutly."Shootin's too good for him. I knew a man—close personal friend, infact—hounded to death—blew his brains out—one of the best. Don'tlike to talk about it."

"I want to show you something," said Wimsey.

He picked up the pack which still lay scattered on the table, andshuffled it together.

"Catch hold of these, Colonel, and lay 'em out face downwards. That'sright. First of all you cut 'em at the twentieth card—you'll see theseven of diamonds at the bottom. Correct? Now I'll call 'em. Ten ofhearts, ace of spades, three of clubs, five of clubs, king of diamonds,nine, jack, two of hearts. Right? I could pick 'em all out, you see,except the ace of hearts, and that's here."

He leaned forward and produced it dexterously from Sir Impey'sbreast-pocket.

"I learnt it from a man who shared my dug-out near Ypres," he said."You needn't mention to-night's business, you two. There are crimeswhich the Law cannot reach."

THE UNDIGNIFIED MELODRAMA OF THE BONE OF CONTENTION

"I am afraid you have brought shocking weather with you, Lord Peter,"said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym, with playful reproof. "If it goes on like thisthey will have a bad day for the funeral."

Lord Peter Wimsey glanced out of the morning-room window to thesoaked green lawn and the shrubbery, where the rain streamed downremorselessly over the laurel leaves, stiff and shiny like mackintoshes.

"Nasty exposed business, standing round at funerals," he agreed.

"Yes, I always think it's such a shame for the old people. In a tinyvillage like this it's about the only pleasure they get during thewinter. It makes something for them to talk about for weeks."

"Is it anybody's funeral in particular?"

"My dear Wimsey," said his host, "it is plain that you, coming fromyour little village of London, are quite out of the swim. There hasnever been a funeral like it in Little Doddering before. It's an event."

"Really?"

"Oh dear, yes. You may possibly remember old Burdock?"

"Burdock? Let me see. Isn't he a sort of local squire, or something?"

"He was," corrected Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "He's dead—died in New Yorkabout three weeks ago, and they're sending him over to be buried. TheBurdocks have lived in the big house for hundreds of years, and they'reall buried in the churchyard, except, of course, the one who was killedin the War. Burdock's secretary cabled the news of his death across,and said the body was following as soon as the embalmers had finishedwith it. The boat gets in to Southampton this morning, I believe. Atany rate, the body will arrive here by the 6.30 from Town."

"Are you going down to meet it, Tom?"

"No, my dear. I don't think that is called for. There will be a grandturn-out of the village, of course. Joliffe's people are having thetime of their lives; they borrowed an extra pair of horses from youngMortimer for the occasion. I only hope they don't kick over the tracesand upset the hearse. Mortimer's horseflesh is generally on thespirited side."

"But, Tom, we must show some respect to the Burdocks."

"We're attending the funeral to-morrow, and that's quite enough. Wemust do that, I suppose, out of consideration for the family, though,as far as the old man himself goes, respect is the very last thinganybody would think of paying him."

"Oh, Tom, he's dead."

"And quite time too. No, Agatha, it's no use pretending that oldBurdock was anything but a spiteful, bad-tempered, dirty-living oldblackguard that the world's well rid of. The last scandal he stirredup made the place too hot to hold him. He had to leave the country andgo to the States, and, even so, if he hadn't had the money to pay thepeople off, he'd probably have been put in gaol. That's why I'm soannoyed with Hanco*ck. I don't mind his calling himself a priest, thoughclergyman was always good enough for dear old Weeks—who, after all,was a canon—and I don't mind his vestments. He can wrap himself up ina Union Jack if he likes—it doesn't worry me. But when it comes tohaving old Burdock put on trestles in the south aisle, with candlesround him, and Hubbard from the 'Red Cow' and Duggins's boy prayingover him half the night, I think it's time to draw the line. The peopledon't like it, you know—as least, the older generation don't. It's allright for the young ones, I dare say; they must have their amusem*nt;but it gives offence to a lot of the farmers. After all, they knewBurdock a bit too well. Simpson—he's people's warden, you know—cameup quite in distress to speak to me about it last night. You couldn'thave a sounder man than Simpson. I said I would speak to Hanco*ck. I didspeak to him this morning, as a matter of fact, but you might as welltalk to the west door of the church."

"Mr. Hanco*ck is one of those young men who fancy they know everything,"said his wife. "A sensible man would have listened to you, Tom. You'rea magistrate and have lived here all your life, and it stands to reasonyou know considerably more about the parish than he does."

"He took up the ridiculous position," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "thatthe more sinful the old man had been the more he needed praying for.I said, 'I think it would need more praying than you or I could do tohelp old Burdock out of the place he's in now.' Ha, ha! So he said,'I agree with you, Mr. Frobisher-Pym; that is why I am having eightwatchers to pray all through the night for him.' I admit he had methere."

"Eight people?" exclaimed Mrs. Frobisher-Pym.

"Not all at once, I understand; in relays, two at a time. 'Well,' Isaid, 'I think you ought to consider that you will be giving a handleto the Nonconformists.' Of course, he couldn't deny that."

Wimsey helped himself to marmalade. Nonconformists, it seemed, werealways searching for handles. Though what kind—whether door-handles,tea-pot handles, pump-handles, or starting-handles—was neverexplained, nor what the handles were to be used for when found.However, having been brought up in the odour of the Establishment, hewas familiar with this odd dissenting peculiarity, and merely said:

"Pity to be extreme in a small parish like this. Disturbs the ideas ofthe simple fathers of the hamlet and the village blacksmith, with hisdaughter singin' in the choir and the Old Hundredth and all the restof it. Don't Burdock's family have anything to say to it? There aresome sons, aren't there?"

"Only the two, now. Aldine was the one that was killed, of course, andMartin is somewhere abroad. He went off after that row with his father,and I don't think he has been back in England since."

"What was the row about?"

"Oh, that was a disgraceful business. Martin got a girl into trouble—afilm actress or a typist or somebody of that sort—and insisted onmarrying her."

"Oh?"

"Yes, so dreadful of him," said the lady, taking up the tale, "when hewas practically engaged to the Delaprime girl—the one with glasses,you know. It made a terrible scandal. Some horribly vulgar people camedown and pushed their way into the house and insisted on seeing old Mr.Burdock. I will say for him he stood up to them—he wasn't the sort ofperson you could intimidate. He told them the girl had only herselfto blame, and they could sue Martin if they liked—he wouldn't beblackmailed on his son's account. The butler was listening at the door,naturally, and told the whole village about it. And then Martin Burdockcame home and had a quarrel with his father you could have heard formiles. He said that the whole thing was a lie, and that he meant tomarry the girl, anyway. I cannot understand how anybody could marryinto a blackmailing family like that."

"My dear," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym gently, "I don't think you'rebeing quite fair to Martin, or his wife's parents, either. From whatMartin told me, they were quite decent people, only not his class, ofcourse, and they came in a well-meaning way to find out what Martin's'intentions' were. You would want to do the same yourself, if it were adaughter of ours. Old Burdock, naturally, thought they meant blackmail.He was the kind of man who thinks everything can be paid for; and heconsidered a son of his had a perfect right to seduce a young woman whoworked for a living. I don't say Martin was altogether in the right——"

"Martin is a chip off the old block, I'm afraid," retorted the lady."He married the girl, anyway, and why should he do that, unless he hadto?"

"Well, they've never had any children, you know," said Mr.Frobisher-Pym.

"That's as may be. I've no doubt the girl was in league with herparents. And you know the Martin Burdocks have lived in Paris eversince."

"That's true," admitted her husband. "It was an unfortunate affairaltogether. They've had some difficulty in tracing Martin's address,too, but no doubt he'll be coming back shortly. He is engaged inproducing some film play, they tell me, so possibly he can't get awayin time for the funeral."

"If he had any natural feeling, he would not let a film play stand inhis way," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym.

"My dear, there are such things as contracts, with very heavy monetarypenalties for breaking them. And I don't suppose Martin could afford tolose a big sum of money. It's not likely that his father will have lefthim anything."

"Martin is the younger son, then?" asked Wimsey, politely showing moreinterest than he felt in the rather well-worn plot of this villagemelodrama.

"No, he is the eldest of the lot. The house is entailed, of course,and so is the estate, such as it is. But there's no money in the land.Old Burdock made his fortune in rubber shares during the boom, and themoney will go as he leaves it—wherever that may be, for they haven'tfound any will yet. He's probably left it all to Haviland."

"The younger son?"

"Yes. He's something in the City—a director of a company—connectedwith silk stockings, I believe. Nobody has seen very much of him. Hecame down as soon as he heard of his father's death. He's staying withthe Hanco*cks. The big house has been shut up since old Burdock went tothe States four years ago. I suppose Haviland thought it wasn't worthwhile opening it up till they knew what Martin was going to do aboutit. That's why the body is being taken to the church."

"Much less trouble, certainly," said Wimsey.

"Oh, yes—though, mind you, I think Haviland ought to take a moreneighbourly view of it. Considering the position the Burdocks havealways held in the place, the people had a right to expect a properreception after the funeral. It's usual. But these business peoplethink less of tradition than we do down here. And, naturally, since theHanco*cks are putting Haviland up, he can't raise much objection to thecandles and the prayers and things."

"Perhaps not," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym, "but it would have been moresuitable if Haviland had come to us, rather than to the Hanco*cks, whomhe doesn't even know."

"My dear, you forget the very unpleasant dispute I had with HavilandBurdock about shooting over my land. After the correspondence thatpassed between us, last time he was down here, I could scarcely offerhim hospitality. His father took a perfectly proper view of it, I willsay that for him, but Haviland was exceedingly discourteous to me,and things were said which I could not possibly overlook. However, wemustn't bore you, Lord Peter, with our local small-talk. If you'vefinished your breakfast, what do you say to a walk round the place?It's a pity it's raining so hard—and you don't see the garden atit* best this time of the year, of course—but I've got some co*ckerspan'els you might like to have a look at."

Lord Peter expressed eager anxiety to see the spaniels, and in a fewminutes' time found himself squelching down the gravel path which ledto the kennels.

"Nothing like a healthy country life," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "Ialways think London is so depressing in the winter. Nothing to do withone's self. All right to run up for a day or two and see a theatre nowand again, but how you people stick it week in and week out beats me. Imust speak to Plunkett about this archway," he added. "It's getting outof trim."

He broke off a dangling branch of ivy as he spoke. The plant shudderedrevengefully, tipping a small shower of water down Wimsey's neck.

The co*cker spaniel and her family occupied a comfortable and airystall in the stable buildings. A youngish man in breeches and leggingsemerged to greet the visitors, and produced the little bundles ofpuppy-hood for their inspection. Wimsey sat down on an upturned bucketand examined them gravely one by one. The bitch, after cautiouslyreviewing his boots and grumbling a little, decided that he wastrustworthy and slobbered genially over his knees.

"Let me see," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "how old are they?"

"Thirteen days, sir."

"Is she feeding them all right?"

"Fine, sir. She's having some of the malt food. Seems to suit her verywell, sir."

"Ah, yes. Plunkett was a little doubtful about it, but I heard itspoken very well of. Plunkett doesn't care for experiments, and, in ageneral way, I agree with him. Where is Plunkett, by the way?"

"He's not very well this morning, sir."

"Sorry to hear that, Merridew. The rheumatics again?"

"No, sir. From what Mrs. Plunkett tells me, he's had a bit of a shock."

"A shock? What sort of a shock? Nothing wrong with Alf or Elsie, Ihope?"

"No, sir. The fact is—I understand he's seen something, sir."

"What do you mean, seen something?"

"Well, sir—something in the nature of a warning, from what he says."

"A warning? Good heavens, Merridew, he mustn't get those sort of ideasin his head. I'm surprised at Plunkett; I always thought he was a verylevel-headed man. What sort of warning did he say it was?"

"I couldn't say, sir."

"Surely he mentioned what he thought he'd seen."

Merridew's face took on a slightly obstinate look.

"I can't say, I'm sure, sir."

"This will never do. I must go and see Plunkett. Is he at the cottage?"

"Yes, sir."

"We'll go down there at once. You don't mind, do you, Wimsey? I can'tallow Plunkett to make himself ill. If he's had a shock he'd better seea doctor. Well, carry on, Merridew, and be sure you keep her warm andcomfortable. The damp is apt to come up through these brick floors.I'm thinking of having the whole place re-set with concrete, but ittakes money, of course. I can't imagine," he went on, as he led the waypast the greenhouse towards a trim cottage set in its own square ofkitchen-garden, "what can have happened to have upset Plunkett. I hopeit's nothing serious. He's getting elderly, of course, but he ought tobe above believing in warnings. You wouldn't believe the extraordinaryideas these people get hold of. Fact is, I expect he's been round atthe 'Weary Traveller,' and caught sight of somebody's washing hung outon the way home."

"Not washing," corrected Wimsey mechanically. He had a deductive turnof mind which exposed the folly of the suggestion even while irritablyadmitting that the matter was of no importance. "It poured with rainlast night, and, besides, it's Thursday. But Tuesday and Wednesday werefine, so the drying would have all been done then. No washing."

"Well, well—something else then—a post, or old Mrs. Giddens's whitedonkey. Plunkett does occasionally take a drop too much, I'm sorry tosay, but he's a very good kennel-man, so one overlooks it. They'resuperstitious round about these parts, and they can tell some queertales if once you get into their confidence. You'd be surprised howfar off the main track we are as regards civilisation. Why, not here,but at Abbotts Bolton, fifteen miles off, it's as much as one's life'sworth to shoot a hare. Witches, you know, and that sort of thing."

"I shouldn't be a bit surprised. They'll still tell you aboutwerewolves in some parts of Germany."

"Yes, I dare say. Well, here we are." Mr. Frobisher-Pym rapped loudlywith his walking-stick on the door of the cottage and turned the handlewithout waiting for permission.

"You there, Mrs. Plunkett? May we come in? Ah! good morning. Hope we'renot disturbing you, but Merridew told me Plunkett was not so well. Thisis Lord Peter Wimsey—a very old friend of mine; that is to say, I'm avery old friend of his; ha, ha!"

"Good morning, sir; good morning, your lordship. I'm sure Plunkett willbe very pleased to see you. Please step in. Plunkett, here's Mr. Pym tosee you."

The elderly man who sat crouching over the fire turned a mournful facetowards them, and half rose, touching his forehead.

"Well, now, Plunkett, what's the trouble?" enquired Mr. Frobisher-Pym,with the hearty bedside manner adopted by country gentlefolk visitingtheir dependants. "Sorry not to see you out and about. Touch of the oldcomplaint, eh?"

"No, sir; no, sir. Thank you, sir. I'm well enough in myself. But I'vehad a warning, and I'm not long for this world."

"Not long for this world? Oh, nonsense, Plunkett. You mustn't talk likethat. A touch of indigestion, that's what you've got, I expect. Givesone the blues, I know. I'm sure I often feel like nothing on earth whenI've got one of my bilious attacks. Try a dose of castor-oil, or a goodold-fashioned blue pill and black draught. Nothing like it. Then youwon't talk about warnings and dying."

"No medicine won't do no good to my complaint, sir. Nobody as seewhat I've seed ever got the better of it. But as you and the gentlemanare here, sir, I'm wondering if you'll do me a favour."

"Of course, Plunkett, anything you like. What is it?"

"Why, just to draw up my will, sir. Old Parson, he used to do it. But Idon't fancy this new young man, with his candles and bits of things. Itdon't seem as if he'd make it good and legal, sir, and I wouldn't likeit if there was any dispute after I was gone. So as there ain't muchtime left me, I'd be grateful if you'd put it down clear for me in penand ink that I wants my little bit all to go to Sarah here, and afterher to Alf and Elsie, divided up equal."

"Of course I'll do that for you, Plunkett, any time you like. But it'sall nonsense to be talking about wills. Bless my soul, I shouldn't besurprised if you were to see us all underground."

"No, sir. I've been a hale and hearty man, I'm not denying. But I'vebeen called, sir, and I've got to go. It must come to all of us, I knowthat. But it's a fearful thing to see the death-coach come for one, andknow that the dead are in it, that cannot rest in the grave."

"Come now, Plunkett, you don't mean to tell me you believe in that oldfoolishness about the death-coach. I thought you were an educated man.What would Alf say if he heard you talking such nonsense?"

"Ah, sir, young people don't know everything, and there's many morethings in God's creation than what you'll find in the printed books."

"Oh, well," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, finding this opening irresistible,"we know there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, thanare dreamt of in your philosophy. Quite so. But that doesn't applynowadays," he added contradictorily. "There are no ghosts in thetwentieth century. Just you think the matter out quietly, and you'llfind you've made a mistake. There's probably some quite simpleexplanation. Dear me! I remember Mrs. Frobisher-Pym waking up one nightand having a terrible fright, because she thought somebody'd been andhanged himself on our bedroom door. Such a silly idea, because I wassafe in bed beside her—snoring, she said, ha, ha!—and, if anybodywas feeling like hanging himself, he wouldn't come into our bedroomto do it. Well, she clutched my arm in a great state of mind, andwhen I went to see what had alarmed her, what do you think it was? Mytrousers, which I'd hung up by the braces, with the socks still in thelegs! My word! and didn't I get a wigging for not having put my thingsaway tidy!"

Mr. Frobisher-Pym laughed, and Mrs. Plunkett said dutifully, "Therenow!" Her husband shook his head.

"That may be, sir, but I see the death-coach last night with my owneyes. Just striking midnight it was, by the church clock, and I see itcome up the lane by the old priory wall."

"And what were you doing out of bed at midnight, eh?"

"Well, sir, I'd been round to my sister's, that's got her boy home onleaf off of his ship."

"And you'd been drinking his health, I dare say, Plunkett." Mr.Frobisher-Pym wagged an admonitory forefinger.

"No, sir, I don't deny I'd had a glass or two of ale, but not to fuddleme. My wife can tell you I was sober enough when I got home."

"That's right, sir. Plunkett hadn't taken too much last night, thatI'll swear to."

"Well, what was it you saw, Plunkett?"

"I see the death-coach, same as I'm telling you, sir. It come up thelane, all ghostly white, sir, and never making no more sound than thedead—which it were, sir."

"A wagon or something going through to Lymptree or Herriotting."

"No, sir—tweren't a wagon. I counted the horses—four white horses,and they went by with never a sound of hoof or bridle. And thatweren't——"

"Four horses! Come, Plunkett, you must have been seeing double. There'snobody about here would be driving four horses, unless it was Mr.Mortimer from Abbotts Bolton, and he wouldn't be taking his horsefleshout at midnight."

"Four horses they was, sir. I see them plain. And it weren't Mr.Mortimer, neither, for he drives a drag, and this were a big, heavycoach, with no lights on it, but shinin' all of itself, with a colourlike moonshine."

"Oh, nonsense, man! You couldn't see the moon last night. It waspitch-dark."

"No, sir, but the coach shone all moony-like, all the same."

"And no lights? I wonder what the police would say to that."

"No mortal police could stop that coach," said Plunkett contemptuously,"nor no mortal man could abide the sight on it. I tell you, sir, thatain't the worst of it. The horses——"

"Was it going slowly?"

"No, sir. It were going at a gallop, only the hoofs didn't touch theground. There weren't no sound, and I see the black road and the whitehoofs half a foot off of it. And the horses had no heads."

"No heads?"

"No, sir."

Mr. Frobisher-Pym laughed.

"Come, come, Plunkett, you don't expect us to swallow that. No heads?How could even a ghost drive horses with no heads? How about the reins,eh?"

"You may laugh, sir, but we know that with God all things are possible.Four white horses they was. I see them clearly, but there was neitherhead nor neck beyond the collar, sir. I see the reins, shining likesilver, and they ran up to the rings of the hames, and they didn't gono further. If I was to drop down dead this minute, sir, that's what Isee."

"Was there a driver to this wonderful turn-out?"

"Yes, sir, there was a driver."

"Headless too, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir, headless too. At least, I couldn't see nothing of him beyondhis coat, which had them old-fashioned capes at the shoulders."

"Well, I must say, Plunkett, you're very circ*mstantial. How far offwas this—er—apparition when you saw it?"

"I was passing by the War Memorial, sir, when I see it come up thelane. It wouldn't be above twenty or thirty yards from where I stood.It went by at a gallop, and turned off to the left round the churchyardwall."

"Well, well, it sounds odd, certainly, but it was a dark night, and atthat distance your eyes may have deceived you. Now, if you'll take myadvice you'll think no more about it."

"Ah, sir, it's all very well saying that, but everybody knows the manwho sees the death-coach of the Burdocks is doomed to die within theweek. There's no use rebelling against it, sir; it is so. And if you'llbe so good as to oblige me over that matter of a will, I'd die happierfor knowing as Sarah and the children was sure of their bit of money."

Mr. Frobisher-Pym obliged over the will, though much against the grain,exhorting and scolding as he wrote. Wimsey added his own signature asone of the witnesses, and contributed his own bit of comfort.

"I shouldn't worry too much about the coach, if I were you," he said."Depend upon it, if it's the Burdock coach it'll just have come for thesoul of the old squire. It couldn't be expected to go to New York forhim, don't you see? It's just gettin' ready for the funeral to-morrow."

"That's likely enough," agreed Plunkett. "Often and often it's beenseen in these parts when one of the Burdocks was taken. But it'sterrible unlucky to see it."

The thought of the funeral seemed, however, to cheer him a little.The visitors again begged him not to think about it, and took theirdeparture.

"Isn't it wonderful," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "what imagination willdo with these people? And they're obstinate. You could argue with themtill you were black in the face."

"Yes. I say, let's go down to the church and have a look at the place.I'd like to know how much he could really have seen from where he wasstanding."

The parish church of Little Doddering stands, like so many countrychurches, at some distance from the houses. The main road fromHerriotting, Abbotts Bolton, and Frimpton runs past the west gate ofthe churchyard—a wide God's acre, crowded with ancient stones. Onthe south side is a narrow and gloomy lane, heavily overhung with oldelm-trees, dividing the church from the still more ancient ruins ofDoddering Priory. On the main road, a little beyond the point where OldPriory Lane enters, stands the War Memorial, and from here the roadruns straight on into Little Doddering. Round the remaining two sidesof the churchyard winds another lane, known to the village simply asthe Back Lane. This branches out from the Herriotting road about ahundred yards north of the church, connects with the far end of PrioryLane, and thence proceeds deviously to Shootering Underwood, Hamsey,Thripsey, and Wyck.

"Whatever it was Plunkett thinks he saw," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "itmust have come from Shootering. The Back Lane only leads round by somefields and a cottage or two, and it stands to reason anybody comingfrom Frimpton would have taken the main road, going and coming. Thelane is in a very bad state with all this rain. I'm afraid even yourdetective ability, my dear Wimsey, would not avail to find wheel-markson this modern tarmac."

"Hardly," said Wimsey, "especially in the case of a ghostly chariotwhich gets along without touching the ground. But your reasoning seemsperfectly sound, sir."

"It was probably a couple of belated wagons going to market," pursuedMr. Frobisher-Pym, "and the rest of it is superstition and, I amafraid, the local beer. Plunkett couldn't have seen all those detailsabout drivers and hames and so on at this distance. And, if it wasmaking no noise, how did he come to notice it at all, since he'd gotpast the turn and was walking in the other direction? Depend upon it,he heard the wheels and imagined the rest."

"Probably," said Wimsey.

"Of course," went on his host, "if the wagons really were going aboutwithout lights, it ought to be looked into. It is a very dangerousthing, with all these motor vehicles about, and I've had to speakseverely about it before now. I fined a man only the other day for thevery same thing. Do you care to see the church while we're here?"

Knowing that in country places it is always considered proper to seethe church, Lord Peter expressed his eagerness to do so.

"It's always open nowadays," said the magistrate, leading the way tothe west entrance. "The vicar has an idea that churches should bealways open for private prayer. He comes from a town living, of course.Round about here the people are always out on the land, and you can'texpect them to come into church in their working clothes and muddyboots. They wouldn't think it respectful, and they've other thingsto do. Besides, I said to him, consider the opportunity it gives forundesirable conduct. But he's a young man, and he'll have to learn byexperience."

He pushed the door open. A curious, stuffy waft of stale incense, damp,and stoves rushed out at them as they entered—a kind of concentratedextract of Church of England. The two altars, bright with flowers andgilding, and showing as garish splashes among the heavy shadows andoppressive architecture of the little Norman building, sounded the samenote of contradiction; it was the warm and human that seemed exotic andunfamiliar; the cold and unwelcoming that seemed native to the placeand people.

"This Lady-chapel, as Hanco*ck calls it, in the south aisle, is new, ofcourse," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "It aroused a good deal of opposition,but the Bishop is lenient with the High Church party—too lenient, somepeople think—but, after all, what does it matter? I'm sure I can saymy prayers just as well with two communion-tables as with one. And, Iwill say for Hanco*ck, he is very good with the young men and the girls.In these days of motor-cycles, it's something to get them interestedin religion at all. Those trestles in the chapel are for old Burdock'scoffin, I suppose. Ah! Here is the vicar."

A thin man in a cassock emerged from a door beside the high altar andcame down towards them, carrying a tall, oaken candlestick in his hand.He greeted them with a slightly professional smile of welcome. Wimseydiagnosed him promptly as earnest, nervous, and not highly intellectual.

"The candlesticks have only just come," he observed after the usualintroductions had been made. "I was afraid they would not be here intime. However, all is now well."

He set the candlestick beside the coffin-trestles, and proceeded todecorate its brass spike with a long candle of unbleached wax, which hetook from a parcel in a neighbouring pew.

Mr. Frobisher-Pym said nothing. Wimsey felt it incumbent on him toexpress his interest, and did so.

"It is very gratifying," said Mr. Hanco*ck, thus encouraged, "to see thepeople beginning to take a real interest in their church. I have reallyhad very little difficulty in finding watchers for to-night. We arehaving eight watchers, two by two, from 10 o'clock this evening—tillwhich time I shall be myself on duty—till six in the morning, when Icome in to say Mass. The men will carry on till 2 o'clock, then my wifeand daughter will relieve them, and Mr. Hubbard and young Rawlinsonhave kindly consented to take the hours from four till six."

"What Rawlinson is that?" demanded Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"Mr. Graham's clerk from Herriotting. It is true he is not a member ofthe parish, but he was born here, and was good enough to wish to takehis turn in watching. He is coming over on his motor-cycle. After all,Mr. Graham has had charge of Burdock's family affairs for very manyyears, and no doubt they wished to show their respect in some way."

"Well, I only hope he'll be awake enough to do his work in the morning,after gadding about all night," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym gruffly. "As forHubbard, that's his own look-out, though I must say it seems an oddoccupation for a publican. Still, if he's pleased, and you're pleased,there's no more to be said about it."

"You've got a very beautiful old church here, Mr. Hanco*ck," saidWimsey, seeing that controversy seemed imminent.

"Very beautiful indeed," said the vicar. "Have you noticed that apse?It is rare for a village church to possess such a perfect Norman apse.Perhaps you would like to come and look at it." He genuflected as theypassed a hanging lamp which burned before a niche. "You see, we arepermitted Reservation. The Bishop——" He prattled cheerfully as theywandered up the chancel, digressing from time to time to draw attentionto the handsome miserere seats ("Of course, this was the originalPriory Church"), and a beautifully carved piscina and aumbry ("It israre to find them so well preserved"). Wimsey assisted him to carrydown the remaining candlesticks from the vestry, and, when these hadbeen put in position, joined Mr. Frobisher-Pym at the door.

"I think you said you were dining with the Lumsdens to-night," said themagistrate, as they sat smoking after lunch. "How are you going? Willyou have the car?"

"I'd rather you'd lend me one of the saddle-horses," said Wimsey. "Iget few opportunities of riding in town."

"Certainly, my dear boy, certainly. Only I'm afraid you'll have rathera wet ride. Take Polly Flinders; it will do her good to get someexercise. You are quite sure you would prefer it? Have you got your kitwith you?"

"Yes—I brought an old pair of bags down with me, and, with thisraincoat, I shan't come to any harm. They won't expect me to dress. Howfar is it to Frimpton, by the way?"

"Nine miles by the main road, and tarmac all the way, I'm afraid, butthere's a good wide piece of grass each side. And, of course, you cancut off a mile or so by going across the common. What time will youwant to start?"

"Oh, about seven o'clock, I should think. And, I say, sir—will Mrs.Frobisher-Pym think it very rude if I'm rather late back? Old Lumsdenand I went through the war together, and if we get yarning over oldtimes we may go on into the small hours. I don't want to feel I'mtreating your house like a hotel, but——"

"Of course not, of course not! That's absolutely all right. My wifewon't mind in the very least. We want you to enjoy your visit and doexactly what you like. I'll give you the key, and I'll remember not toput the chain up. Perhaps you wouldn't mind doing that yourself whenyou come in?"

"Rather not. And how about the mare?"

"I'll tell Merridew to look out for you; he sleeps over the stables.I only wish it were going to be a better night for you. I'm afraidthe glass is going back. Yes. Dear, dear! It's a bad look-out forto-morrow. By the way, you'll probably pass the funeral procession atthe church. It should be along by about then, if the train is punctual."

The train, presumably, was punctual, for as Lord Peter cantered upto the west gate of the church he saw a hearse of great funerealpomp drawn up before it, surrounded by a little crowd of people. Twomourning coaches were in attendance; the driver of the second seemedto be having some difficulty with the horses, and Wimsey rightlyinferred that this was the pair which had been borrowed from Mr.Mortimer. Restraining Polly Flinders as best he might, he sidled intoa respectful position on the edge of the crowd, and watched the coffintaken from the hearse and carried through the gate, where it was metby Mr. Hanco*ck, in full pontificals, attended by a thurifer and twotorch-bearers. The effect was a little marred by the rain, which hadextinguished the candles, but the village seemed to look upon it asan excellent show nevertheless. A massive man, dressed with greatcorrectness in a black frock coat and tall hat, and accompanied by awoman in handsome mourning and furs, was sympathetically commented on.This was Haviland Burdock of silk-stocking fame, the younger son ofthe deceased. A vast number of white wreaths were then handed out, andgreeted with murmurs of admiration and approval. The choir struck up ahymn, rather raggedly, and the procession filed away into the church.Polly Flinders shook her head vigorously, and Wimsey, taking this asa signal to be gone, replaced his hat and ambled gently away towardsFrimpton.

He followed the main road for about four miles, winding up throughfinely wooded country to the edge of Frimpton Common. Here the roadmade a wide sweep, skirting the common and curving gently down intoFrimpton village. Wimsey hesitated for a moment, considering that itwas growing dark and that both the way and the animal he rode werestrange to him. There seemed, however, to be a well-defined bridle-pathacross the common, and eventually he decided to take it. Polly Flindersseemed to know it well enough, and cantered along without hesitation. Aride of about a mile and a half brought them without adventure into themain road again. Here a fork in the road presented itself confusingly;an electric torch, however, and a sign-post solved the problem; afterwhich ten minutes' ride brought the traveller to his goal.

Major Lumsden was a large, cheerful man—none the less cheerful forhaving lost a leg in the War. He had a large, cheerful wife, a large,cheerful house, and a large, cheerful family. Wimsey soon foundhimself seated before a fire as large and cheerful as the rest of theestablishment, exchanging gossip with his hosts over a whisky-and-soda.He described the Burdock funeral with irreverent gusto, and went on totell the story of the phantom coach. Major Lumsden laughed.

"It's a quaint part of the country," he said. "The policeman is just asbad as the rest of them. Do you remember, dear, the time I had to goout and lay a ghost, down at Pogson's farm?"

"I do, indeed," said his wife emphatically. "The maids had a wonderfultime. Trivett—that's our local constable—came rushing in here andfainted in the kitchen, and they all sat round howling and sustaininghim with our best brandy, while Dan went down and investigated."

"Did you find the ghost?"

"Well, not the ghost, exactly, but we found a pair of boots and half apork-pie in the empty house, so we put it all down to a tramp. Still, Imust say odd things do happen about here. There were those fires on thecommon last year. They were never explained."

"Gipsies, Dan."

"Maybe; but nobody ever saw them, and the fires would start in the mostunexpected way, sometimes in the pouring rain; and, before you couldget near one, it would be out, and only a sodden wet black mark leftbehind it. And there's another bit of the common that animals don'tlike—near what they call the Dead Man's Post. My dogs won't go nearit. Funny brutes. I've never seen anything there, but even in broaddaylight they don't seem to fancy it. The common's not got a goodreputation. It used to be a great place for highwaymen."

"Is the Burdock coach anything to do with highwaymen?"

"No. I fancy it was some rakehelly dead-and-gone Burdock. Belongedto the Hell-fire Club or something. The usual sort of story. All thepeople round here believe in it, of course. It's rather a good thing.Keeps the servants indoors at night. Well, let's go and have some grub,shall we?"

"Do you remember," said Major Lumsden, "that damned old mill, and thethree elms by the pig-sty?"

"Good Lord, yes! You very obligingly blew them out of the landscape forus, I remember. They made us a damned sight too conspicuous."

"We rather missed them when they were gone."

"Thank heaven you didn't miss them when they were there. I'll tell youwhat you did miss, though."

"What's that?"

"The old sow."

"By Jove, yes. Do you remember old Piper fetching her in?"

"I'll say I do. That reminds me. You knew Bunthorne...."

"I'll say good night," said Mrs. Lumsden, "and leave you people to it."

"Do you remember," said Lord Peter Wimsey, "that awkward moment whenPopham went off his rocker?"

"No. I'd been sent back with a batch of prisoners. I heard about itthough. I never knew what became of him."

"I got him sent home. He's married now and living in Lincolnshire."

"Is he? Well, he couldn't help himself, I suppose. He was only a kid.What's happened to Philpotts?"

"Oh, Philpotts...."

"Where's your glass, old man?"

"Oh, rot, old man. The night is still young...."

"Really? Well, but look here, why not stay the night? My wife will bedelighted. I can fix you up in no time."

"No, thanks most awfully. I must be rolling off home. I said I'd beback; and I'm booked to put the chain on the door."

"As you like, of course, but it's still raining. Not a good night for aride on an open horse."

"I'll bring a saloon next time. We shan't hurt. Rain's good for thecomplexion—makes the roses grow. Don't wake your man up. I can saddleher myself."

"My dear man, it's no trouble."

"No, really, old man."

"Well, I'll come along and lend you a hand."

A gust of rain and wind blew in through the hall door as they struggledout into the night. It was past one in the morning and pitch-dark.Major Lumsden again pressed Wimsey to stay.

"No, thanks, really. The old lady's feelings might be hurt. It's not sobad, really—wet, but not cold. Come up, Polly, stand over, old lady."

He put the saddle on and girthed it, while Lumsden held the lantern.The mare, fed and rested, came delicately dancing out of the warmloose-box, head well stretched forward, and nostrils snuffing at therain.

"Well, so long, old lad. Come and look us up again. It's been great."

"Rather! By Jove, yes. Best respects to madame. Is the gate open?"

"Yes."

"Well, cheerio!"

"Cheerio!"

Polly Flinders, with her nose turned homewards, settled down to makeshort work of the nine miles of high-road. Once outside the gates, thenight seemed lighter, though the rain poured heavily. Somewhere buriedbehind the thronging clouds there was a moon, which now and againshowed as a pale stain on the sky, a paler reflection on the blackroad. Wimsey, with a mind full of memories and a skin full of whisky,hummed to himself as he rode.

As he passed the fork, he hesitated for a moment. Should he take thepath over the common or stick to the road? On consideration, he decidedto give the common a miss—not because of its sinister reputation, butbecause of ruts and rabbit-holes. He shook the reins, bestowed a wordof encouragement on his mount, and continued by the road, having thecommon on his right hand, and, on the left, fields bounded by highhedges, which gave some shelter from the driving rain.

He had topped the rise, and passed the spot where the bridle-pathagain joined the high-road, when a slight start and stumble drew hisattention unpleasantly to Polly Flinders.

"Hold up, mare," he said disapprovingly.

Polly shook her head, moved forward, tried to pick up her easy paceagain. "Hullo!" said Wimsey, alarmed. He pulled her to a standstill.

"Lame in the near fore," he said, dismounting. "If you've been and goneand strained anything, my girl, four miles from home, father will bepleased." It occurred to him for the first time how curiously lonelythe road was. He had not seen a single car. They might have been in thewilds of Africa.

He ran an exploratory hand down the near foreleg. The mare stoodquietly enough, without shrinking or wincing. Wimsey was puzzled.

"If these had been the good old days," he said, "I'd have thought she'dpicked up a stone. But what——"

He lifted the mare's foot, and explored it carefully with fingers andpocket-torch. His diagnosis had been right, after all. A steel nut,evidently dropped from a passing car, had wedged itself firmly betweenthe shoe and the frog. He grunted and felt for his knife. Happily, itwas one of that excellent old-fashioned kind which includes, besidesblades and corkscrews, an ingenious apparatus for removing foreignbodies from horses' feet.

The mare nuzzled him gently as he stooped over his task. It was alittle awkward getting to work; he had to wedge the torch under hisarm, so as to leave one hand free for the tool and the other to holdthe hoof. He was swearing gently at these difficulties when, happeningto glance down the road ahead, he fancied he caught the gleam ofsomething moving. It was not easy to see, for at this point the talltrees stood up on both sides of the road, which dipped abruptly fromthe edge of the common. It was not a car; the light was too faint. Awagon, probably, with a dim lantern. Yet it seemed to move fast. Hepuzzled for a moment, then bent to work again.

The nut resisted his efforts, and the mare, touched in a tender spot,pulled away, trying to get her foot down. He soothed her with hisvoice and patted her neck. The torch slipped from his arm. He cursedit impatiently, set down the hoof, and picked up the torch from theedge of the grass, into which it had rolled. As he straightened himselfa*gain, he looked along the road and saw.

Up from under the dripping dark of the trees it came, shining witha thin, moony radiance. There was no clatter of hoofs, no rumbleof wheels, no ringing of bit or bridle. He saw the white, sleek,shining shoulders with the collar that lay on each, like a faint fieryring, enclosing nothing. He saw the gleaming reins, their cut endsslipping back and forward unsupported through the ring of the hames.The feet, that never touched earth, ran swiftly—four times fournoiseless hoofs, bearing the pale bodies by like smoke. The driverleaned forward, brandishing his whip. He was faceless and headless,but his whole attitude bespoke desperate haste. The coach was barelyvisible through the driving rain, but Wimsey saw the dimly spinningwheels and a faint whiteness, still and stiff, at the window. Itwent past at a gallop—headless driver and headless horses and silentcoach. Its passing left a stir, a sound that was less a sound than avibration—and the wind roared suddenly after it, with a great sheet ofwater blown up out of the south.

"Good God!" said Wimsey. And then: "How many whiskies did we have?"

He turned and looked back along the road, straining his eyes. Thensuddenly he remembered the mare, and, without troubling further aboutthe torch, picked up her foot and went to work by touch. The nut gaveno more trouble, but dropped out into his hand almost immediately.Polly Flinders sighed gratefully and blew into his ear.

Wimsey led her forward a few steps. She put her feet down firmly andstrongly. The nut, removed without delay, had left no tenderness.Wimsey mounted, let her go—then pulled her head round suddenly.

"I'm going to see," he said resolutely. "Come up, mare! We won't letany headless horses get the better of us. Perfectly indecent, goin'about without heads. Get on, old lady. Over the common with you. We'llcatch 'em at the cross-roads."

Without the slightest consideration for his host or his host'sproperty, he put the mare to the bridle-path again, and urged her intoa gallop.

At first he thought he could make out a pale, fluttering whiteness,moving away ahead of him on the road. Presently, as high-road andbridle-path diverged, he lost it altogether. But he knew there was noside-road. Bar any accident to his mount, he was bound to catch itbefore it came to the fork. Polly Flinders, answering easily to thetouch of his heel, skimmed over the rough track with the indifferenceborn of familiarity. In less than ten minutes her feet rang out againon the tarmac. He pulled her up, faced round in the direction ofLittle Doddering, and stared down the road. He could see nothing yet.Either he was well ahead of the coach, or it had already passed atunbelievable speed, or else——

He waited. Nothing. The violent rain had ceased, and the moon wasstruggling out again. The road appeared completely deserted. He glancedover his shoulder. A small beam of light near the ground moved,turned, flashed green, and red, and white again, and came towards him.Presently he made out that it was a policeman wheeling a bicycle.

"A bad night, sir," said the man civilly, but with a faint note ofenquiry in his voice.

"Rotten," said Wimsey.

"Just had to mend a puncture, to make it all the pleasanter," added thepoliceman.

Wimsey expressed sympathy. "Have you been here long?" he added.

"Best part o' twenty minutes."

"Did you see anything pass along this way from Little Doddering?"

"Ain't been nothing along while I've been here. What sort of thing didyou mean, sir?"

"I thought I saw——" Wimsey hesitated. He did not care about the ideaof making a fool of himself. "A carriage with four horses," he saidhesitatingly. "It passed me on this road not a quarter of an hourago—down at the other end of the common. I—I came back to see. Itseemed unusual——" He became aware that his story sounded very lame.

The policeman spoke rather sharply and rapidly.

"There ain't been nothing past here."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, sir; and, if you don't mind me sayin' so, you'd best be gettinghome. It's a lonesome bit o' road."

"Yes, isn't it?" said Wimsey. "Well, good night, sergeant."

He turned the mare's head back along the Little Doddering road, goingvery quietly. He saw nothing, heard nothing, and passed nothing. Thenight was brighter now, and, as he rode back, he verified the entireabsence of side-roads. Whatever the thing was which he had seen, it hadvanished somewhere along the edge of the common; it had not gone by themain road, nor by any other.

Wimsey came down rather late for breakfast in the morning, to find hishosts in a state of some excitement.

"The most extraordinary thing has happened," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym.

"Outrageous!" added her husband. "I warned Hanco*ck—he can't sayI didn't warn him. Still, however much one may disapprove of hisgoings-on, there is no excuse whatever for such abominable conduct.Once let me get hold of the beggars, whoever they are——"

"What's up?" said Wimsey, helping himself to broiled kidneys at thesideboard.

"A most scandalous thing," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym. "The vicar came upto Tom at once—I hope we didn't disturb you, by the way, with all theexcitement. It appears that when Mr. Hanco*ck got to the church thismorning at 6 o'clock to take the early service——"

"No, no, my dear, you've got it wrong. Let me tell it. When JoeGrinch—that's the sexton, you know, and he has to get there first toring the bell—when he arrived, he found the south door wide open andnobody in the chapel, where they should have been, beside the coffin.He was very much perplexed, of course, but he supposed that Hubbard andyoung Rawlinson had got sick of it and gone off home. So he went on tothe vestry to get the vestments and things ready, and to his amazementhe heard women's voices, calling out to him from inside. He was soastonished, didn't know where he was, but he went on and unlocked thedoor——"

"With his own key?" put in Wimsey.

"The key was in the door. As a rule it's kept hanging up on a nailunder a curtain near the organ, but it was in the lock—where it oughtnot to have been. And inside the vestry he found Mrs. Hanco*ck and herdaughter, nearly dead with fright and annoyance."

"Great Scott!"

"Yes, indeed. They had a most extraordinary story to tell. They'd takenover at 2 o'clock from the other pair of watchers, and had knelt downby the coffin in the Lady-chapel, according to plan, to say the propersort of prayers, whatever they are. They'd been there, to the bestof their calculation, about ten minutes, when they heard a noise upby the High Altar, as though somebody was creeping stealthily about.Miss Hanco*ck is a very plucky girl, and she got up and walked up theaisle in the dark, with Mrs. Hanco*ck following on behind because, asshe said, she didn't want to be left alone. When they'd got as faras the rood-screen, Miss Hanco*ck called out aloud, 'Who's there?' Atthat they heard a sort of rustling sound, and a noise like somethingbeing knocked over. Miss Hanco*ck most courageously snatched up one ofthe churchwarden's staffs, which was clipped on to the choir-stalls,and ran forward, thinking, she says, that somebody was trying to stealthe ornaments off the altar. There's a very fine fifteenth-centurycross——"

"Never mind the cross, Tom. That hasn't been taken, at any rate."

"No, it hasn't, but she thought it might be. Anyhow, just as she gotup to the sanctuary steps, with Mrs. Hanco*ck coming close after herand begging her to be careful, somebody seemed to rush out of thechoir-stalls, and caught her by the arms and frog's-marched her—that'sher expression—into the vestry. And before she could get breath evento shriek, Mrs. Hanco*ck was pushed in beside her, and the door lockedon them."

"By Jove! You do have exciting times in your village."

"Well," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "of course they were dreadfullyfrightened, because they didn't know but what these wretches would comeback and murder them, and, in any case, they thought the church wasbeing robbed. But the vestry windows are very narrow and barred, andthey couldn't do anything except wait. They tried to listen, but theycouldn't hear much. Their only hope was that the four-o'clock watchersmight come early and catch the thieves at work. But they waited andthey waited, and they heard four strike, and five, and nobody came."

"What had happened to what's-his-name and Rawlinson then?"

"They couldn't make out, and nor could Grinch. However, they had a goodlook round the church, and nothing seemed to be taken or disturbed inany way. Just then the vicar came along, and they told him all aboutit. He was very much shocked, naturally, and his first thought—when hefound the ornaments were safe and the poor-box all right—was that someKensitite people had been stealing the wafers from the what d'you callit."

"The tabernacle," suggested Wimsey.

"Yes, that's his name for it. That worried him very much, and heunlocked it and had a look, but the wafers were all there all right,and, as there's only one key, and that was on his own watch-chain,it wasn't a case of anyone substituting unconsecrated wafers forconsecrated ones, or any practical joke of that kind. So he sent Mrs.and Miss Hanco*ck home, and had a look round the church outside, and thefirst thing he saw, lying in the bushes near the south door, was youngRawlinson's motor-cycle."

"Oho!"

"So his next idea was to hunt for Rawlinson and Hubbard. However,he didn't have to look far. He'd got round the church as far as thefurnace-house on the north side, when he heard a terrific hullabaloogoing on, and people shouting and thumping on the door. So he calledGrinch, and they looked in through the little window, and there, ifyou please, were Hubbard and young Rawlinson, bawling and going on andusing the most shocking language. It seems they were set on in exactlythe same way, only before they got inside the church. Rawlinson hadbeen passing the evening with Hubbard, I understand, and they had abit of a sleep downstairs in the back bar, to avoid disturbing thehouse early—or so they say, though I dare say if the truth was knownthey were having drinks; and if that's Hanco*ck's idea of a suitablepreparation for going to church and saying prayers, all I can say is,it isn't mine. Anyway, they started off just before four, Hubbard goingdown on the carrier of Rawlinson's bicycle. They had to get off at thesouth gate, which was pushed to, and while Rawlinson was wheeling themachine up the path two or three men—they couldn't see exactly—jumpedout from the trees. There was a bit of a scuffle, but what with thebicycle, and its being so unexpected, they couldn't put up a very goodfight, and the men dropped blankets over their heads, or something. Idon't know all the details. At any rate, they were bundled into thefurnace-house and left there. They may be there still, for all I know,if they haven't found the key. There should be a spare key, but I don'tknow what's become of it. They sent up for it this morning, but Ihaven't seen it about for a long time."

"It wasn't left in the lock this time, then?"

"No, it wasn't. They've had to send for the locksmith. I'm going downnow to see what's to be done about it. Like to come, if you're ready?"

Wimsey said he would. Anything in the nature of a problem alwaysfascinated him.

"You were back pretty late, by the way," said Mr. Frobisher-Pymjovially, as they left the house. "Yarning over old times, I suppose."

"We were, indeed," said Wimsey.

"Hope the old girl carried you all right. Lonely bit of road, isn'tit? I don't suppose you saw anybody worse than yourself, as the sayinggoes?"

"Only a policeman," said Wimsey untruthfully. He had not yet quitedecided about the phantom coach. No doubt Plunkett would be relieved toknow that he was not the only person to whom the "warning" had come.But, then, had it really been the phantom coach, or merely a delusion,begotten by whisky upon reminiscence? Wimsey, in the cold light of day,was none too certain.

On arriving at the church, the magistrate and his guest found quitea little crowd collected, conspicuous among whom were the vicar, incassock and biretta, gesticulating freely, and the local policeman,his tunic buttoned awry and his dignity much impaired by the small fryof the village, who clustered round his legs. He had just finishedtaking down the statements of the two men who had been released fromthe stoke-hole. The younger of these, a fresh-faced, impudent-lookingfellow of twenty-five or so, was in the act of starting up hismotor-cycle. He greeted Mr. Frobisher-Pym pleasantly. "Afraid they'vemade us look a bit small, sir. You'll excuse me, won't you? I'll haveto be getting back to Herriotting. Mr. Graham won't be any too pleasedif I'm late for the office. I think some of the bright lads have beenhaving a joke with us." He grinned as he pushed the throttle-leverover and departed in a smother of unnecessary smoke that made Mr.Frobisher-Pym sneeze. His fellow-victim, a large, fat man, who lookedthe sporting publican that he was, grinned shamefacedly at themagistrate.

"Well, Hubbard," said the latter, "I hope you've enjoyed yourexperience. I must say I'm surprised at a man of your size lettinghimself be shut up in a coal-hole like a naughty urchin."

"Yes, sir, I was surprised myself at the time," retorted the publican,good-humouredly enough. "When that there blanket came down on my head,I was the most surprised man in this here country. I gave 'em a hackor two on the shins, though, to remember me by," he added, with areminiscent chuckle.

"How many of them were there?" asked Wimsey.

"Three or four, I should say, sir. But not 'avin' seen 'em, I can onlytell from 'earin' 'em talk. There was two laid 'old of me, I'm prettysure, and young Rawlinson thinks there was only one 'ad 'old of 'im,but 'e was a wonderful strong 'un."

"We must leave no stone unturned to find out who these people were,"said the vicar excitedly. "Ah, Mr. Frobisher-Pym, come and see whatthey have done in the church. It is as I thought—an anti-Catholicprotest. We must be most thankful that they have done no more than theyhave."

He led the way in. Someone had lit two or three hanging lamps inthe gloomy little chancel. By their light Wimsey was able to seethat the neck of the eagle lectern was decorated with an enormousred-white-and-blue bow, and bore a large placard—obviously pinchedfrom the local newspaper offices—"Vatican Bans ImmodestDress." In each of the choir-stalls a teddy-bear sat, lumpishlyamiable, apparently absorbed in reading the choir-books upside-down,while on the ledge before them copies of the Pink 'Un wereobstrusively displayed. In the pulpit, a waggish hand had set up apantomime ass's head, elegantly arrayed in a nightgown, and crownedwith a handsome nimbus, cut from gold paper.

"Disgraceful, isn't it?" said the vicar.

"Well, Hanco*ck," replied Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "I must say I think youhave brought it upon yourself—though I quite agree, of course, thatthis sort of thing cannot possibly be allowed, and the offenders mustbe discovered and severely punished. But you must see that many of yourpractices appear to these people to be papistical nonsense at best, andwhile that is no excuse...."

His reprimanding voice barked on.

"... what I really can only look upon as this sacrilegious businesswith old Burdock—a man whose life...."

The policeman had by this time shoved away the attendant villagers andwas standing beside Lord Peter at the entrance of the rood-screen.

"Was that you was out on the road this morning, sir? Ah! I thought Ireckernised your voice. Did you get home all right, sir? Didn't meetnothing?"

There seemed to be a shade more than idle questioning in the tone ofhis voice. Wimsey turned quickly.

"No, I met nothing—more. Who is it drives a coach with four whitehorses about this village of a night, sergeant?"

"Not sergeant, sir—I ain't due for promotion yet awhile. Well, sir, asto white horses, I don't altogether like to say. Mr. Mortimer over atAbbotts Bolton has some nice greys, and he's the biggest horse-breederabout these parts—but, well, there, sir, he wouldn't be driving out inall that rain, sir, would he?"

"It doesn't seem a sensible thing to do, certainly."

"No, sir. And"—the constable leaned close to Wimsey and spokeinto his ear—"and Mr. Mortimer is a man that's got a head on hisshoulders—and, what's more, so have his horses."

"Why," said Wimsey, a little startled by the aptness of this remark,"did you ever know a horse that hadn't?"

"No, sir," said the policeman, with emphasis, "I never knew no livin'horse that hadn't. But that's neether here nor there, as the sayin'goes. But as to this church business, that's just a bit of a lark gotup among the boys, that's what that is. They don't mean no harm, youknow, sir; they likes to be up to their tricks. It's all very well forthe vicar to talk, sir, but this ain't no Kensitites nor anythink ofthat, as you can see with half an eye. Just a bit of fun, that's all itis."

"I'd come to the same conclusion myself," said Wimsey, interested, "butI'd rather like to know what makes you think so."

"Lord bless you, sir, ain't it plain as the nose on your face? If ithad a-bin these Kensitites, wouldn't they have gone for the crossesand the images and the lights and—that there?" He extended a hornyfinger in the direction of the tabernacle. "No, sir, these lads whatdid this ain't laid a finger on the things what you might call sacredimages—and they ain't done no harm neether to the communion-table. SoI says as it ain't a case of controuversy, but more a bit of fun,like. And they've treated Mr. Burdock's corpse respectful, sir, yousee, too. That shows they wasn't meaning anything wrong at heart, don'tyou see?"

"I agree absolutely," said Wimsey. "In fact, they've taken particularcare not to touch anything that a churchman holds really sacred. Howlong have you been on this job, officer?"

"Three years, sir, come February."

"Ever had any idea of going to town or taking up the detective side ofthe business?"

"Well, sir—I have—but it isn't just ask and have, as you might say."

Wimsey took a card from his note-case.

"If you ever think seriously about it," he said, "give this card toChief Inspector Parker, and have a chat with him. Tell him I think youhaven't got opportunities enough down here. He's a great friend ofmine, and he'll give you a good chance, I know."

"I've heard of you, my lord," said the constable, gratified, "and I'msure it's very kind of your lordship. Well, I suppose I'd best begetting along now. You leave it to me, Mr. Frobisher-Pym, sir; we'llsoon get at the bottom of this here."

"I hope you do," said the magistrate. "Meanwhile, Mr. Hanco*ck, I trustyou will realise the inadvisability of leaving the church doors openat night. Well, come along, Wimsey; we'll leave them to get the churchstraight for the funeral. What have you found there?"

"Nothing," said Wimsey, who had been peering at the floor of theLady-chapel. "I was afraid you'd got the worm in here, but I see it'sonly sawdust." He dusted his fingers as he spoke, and followed Mr.Frobisher-Pym out of the building.

When you are staying in a village, you are expected to take part in theinterests and amusem*nts of the community. Accordingly, Lord Peter dulyattended the funeral of Squire Burdock, and beheld the coffin safelycommitted to the ground, in a drizzle, certainly, but not without theattendance of a large and reverent congregation. After this ceremony,he was formally introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Haviland Burdock, and wasable to confirm his previous impression that the lady was well, not tosay too well, dressed, as might be expected from one whose wardrobe wasbased upon silk stockings. She was a handsome woman, in a large, boldstyle, and the hand that clasped Wimsey's was quite painfully encrustedwith diamonds. Haviland was disposed to be friendly—and, indeed, silkmanufacturers have no reason to be otherwise to rich men of noblebirth. He seemed to be aware of Wimsey's reputation as an antiquarianand book-collector, and extended a hearty invitation to him to come andsee the old house.

"My brother Martin is still abroad," he said, "but I'm sure he would bedelighted to have you come and look at the place. I'm told there aresome very fine old books in the library. We shall be staying here tillMonday—if Mrs. Hanco*ck will be good enough to have us. Suppose youcome along to-morrow afternoon."

Wimsey said he would be delighted.

Mrs. Hanco*ck interposed and said, wouldn't Lord Peter come to tea atthe vicarage first.

Wimsey said it was very good of her.

"Then that's settled," said Mrs. Burdock. "You and Mr. Pym come to tea,and then we'll all go over the house together. I've hardly seen itmyself yet."

"It's very well worth seeing," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym. "Fine old place,but takes some money to keep up. Has nothing been seen of the will yet,Mr. Burdock?"

"Nothing whatever," said Haviland. "It's curious, because Mr.Graham—the solicitor, you know, Lord Peter—certainly drew one up,just after poor Martin's unfortunate difference with our father. Heremembers it perfectly."

"Can't he remember what's in it?"

"He could, of course, but he doesn't think it etiquette to say. He'sone of the crusted old type. Poor Martin always called him an oldscoundrel—but then, of course, he never approved of Martin, so Martinwas not altogether unprejudiced. Besides, as Mr. Graham says, all thatwas some years ago, and it's quite possible that the governor destroyedthe will later, or made a new one in America."

"'Poor Martin' doesn't seem to have been popular hereabouts," saidWimsey to Mr. Frobisher-Pym, as they parted from the Burdocks andturned homewards.

"N-no," said the magistrate. "Not with Graham, anyway. Personally, Irather liked the lad, though he was a bit harum-scarum. I dare say he'ssobered up with time—and marriage. It's odd that they can't find thewill. But, if it was made at the time of the rumpus, it's bound to be inHaviland's favour."

"I think Haviland thinks so," said Wimsey. "His manner seemed to conveya chastened satisfaction. I expect the discreet Graham made it fairlyclear that the advantage was not with the unspeakable Martin."

The following morning turned out fine, and Wimsey, who was supposed tobe enjoying a rest-and-fresh-air cure in Little Doddering, petitionedfor a further loan of Polly Flinders. His host consented with pleasure,and only regretted that he could not accompany his guest, beingbooked to attend a Board of Guardians' meeting in connection with theworkhouse.

"But you could go up and get a good blow on the common," he suggested."Why not go round by Petering Friars, turn off across the common tillyou get to Dead Man's Post, and come back by the Frimpton road? Itmakes a very pleasant round—about nineteen miles. You'll be back innice time for lunch if you take it easy."

Wimsey fell in with the plan—the more readily that it exactlycoincided with his own inward purpose. He had a reason for wishing toride over the Frimpton road by daylight.

"You'll be careful about Dead Man's Post," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym alittle anxiously. "The horses have a way of shying at it. I don't knowwhy. People say, of course——"

"All nonsense," said her husband. "The villagers dislike the place andthat makes the horses nervous. It's remarkable how a rider's feelingscommunicate themselves to his mount. I've never had any trouble atDead Man's Post."

It was a quiet and pretty road, even on a November day, that led toPetering Friars. Jogging down the winding Essex lanes in the wintrysunshine, Wimsey felt soothed and happy. A good burst across the commonraised his spirits to exhilaration pitch. He had entirely forgottenDead Man's Post and its uncanny reputation, when a violent start andswerve, so sudden that it nearly unseated him, recalled him to whathe was doing. With some difficulty, he controlled Polly Flinders, andbrought her to a standstill.

He was at the highest point of the common, following a bridle-pathwhich was bordered on each side by gorse and dead bracken. A littleway ahead of him another bridle-path seemed to run into it, and at thejunction of the two was something which he had vaguely imagined to bea decayed sign-post. Certainly it was short and thick for a sign-post,and had no arms. It appeared, however, to bear some sort of inscriptionon the face that was turned towards him.

He soothed the mare, and urged her gently towards the post. She took afew hesitating steps, and plunged sideways, snorting and shivering.

"Queer!" said Wimsey. "If this is my state of mind communicating itselfto my mount, I'd better see a doctor. My nerves must be in a rottenstate. Come up, old lady! What's the matter with you?"

Polly Flinders, apologetic but determined, refused to budge. He urgedher gently with his heel. She sidled away, with ears laid back, and hesaw the white of a protesting eye. He slipped from the saddle, and,putting his hand through the bridle, endeavoured to lead her forward.After a little persuasion, the mare followed him, with stretched neckand treading as though on egg-shells. After a dozen hesitating paces,she stopped again, trembling in all her limbs. He put his hand on herneck and found it wet with sweat.

"Damn it all!" said Wimsey. "Look here, I'm jolly well going to readwhat's on that post. If you won't come, will you stand still?"

He dropped the bridle. The mare stood quietly, with hanging head. Heleft her and went forward, glancing back from time to time to see thatshe showed no disposition to bolt. She stood quietly enough, however,only shifting her feet uneasily.

Wimsey walked up to the post. It was a stout pillar of ancient oak,newly painted white. The inscription, too, had been recently blackedin. It read:

ON THIS SPOT
George Winter
WAS FOULLY MURTHERED
IN DEFENSE OF
HIS MASTER'S GOODS
BY BLACK RALPH
OF HERRIOTTING
WHO WAS AFTERWARD
HANGED IN CHAINS
ON THE PLACE OF HIS CRIME
9 NOVEMBER 1674

FEAR JUSTICE

"And very nice, too," said Wimsey. "Dead Man's Post without a doubt.Polly Flinders seems to share the local feeling about the place. Well,Polly, if them's your sentiments, I won't do violence to them. But mayI ask why, if you're so sensitive about a mere post, you should swallowa death-coach and four headless horses with such hardened equanimity?"

The mare took the shoulder of his jacket gently between her lips andmumbled at it.

"Just so," said Wimsey. "I perfectly understand. You would if youcould, but you really can't. But those horses, Polly—did they bringwith them no brimstone blast from the nethermost pit? Can it be thatthey really exuded nothing but an honest and familiar smell of stables?"

He mounted, and, turning Polly's head to the right, guided her in acircle, so as to give Dead Man's Post a wide berth before striking thepath again.

"The supernatural explanation is, I think, excluded. Not on a priorigrounds, which would be unsound, but on the evidence of Polly's senses.There remain the alternatives of whisky and jiggery-pokery. Furtherinvestigation seems called for."

He continued to muse as the mare moved quietly forward.

"Supposing I wanted, for some reason, to scare the neighbourhood withthe apparition of a coach and headless horses, I should choose a dark,rainy night. Good! It was that kind of night. Now, if I took blackhorses and painted their bodies white—poor devils! what a state they'dbe in. No. How do they do these Maskelyne-and-Devant stunts wherethey cut off people's heads? White horses, of course—and black feltclothing over their heads. Right! And luminous paint on the harness,with a touch here and there on their bodies, to make good contrast andensure that the whole show wasn't invisible. No difficulty about that.But they must go silently. Well, why not? Four stout black cloth bagsfilled with bran, drawn well up and tied round the fetlocks would makeany horse go quietly enough, especially if there was a bit of a windgoing. Rags round the bridle-rings to prevent clinking, and round theends of the traces to keep 'em from squeaking. Give 'em a coachman ina white coat and a black mask, hitch 'em to a rubber-tyred fly, pickedout with phosphorus and well-oiled at the joints—and I swear I'd makesomething quite ghostly enough to startle a rather well-irrigatedgentleman on a lonely road at half-past two in the morning."

He was pleased with this thought, and tapped his boot cheerfully withhis whip.

"But damn it all! They never passed me again. Where did they go to? Acoach-and-horses can't vanish into thin air, you know. There must be aside-road after all—or else, Polly Flinders, you've been pulling myleg all the time."

The bridle-path eventually debouched upon the highway at the nowfamiliar fork where Wimsey had met the policeman. As he slowly ambledhomewards, his lordship scanned the left-hand hedgerow, looking for thelane which surely must exist. But nothing rewarded his search. Enclosedfields with padlocked gates presented the only breaks in the hedge,till he again found himself looking down the avenue of trees up whichthe death-coach had come galloping two nights before.

"Damn!" said Wimsey.

It occurred to him for the first time that the coach might perhapshave turned round and gone back through Little Doddering. Certainlyit had been seen by Little Doddering Church on Wednesday. But on thatoccasion, also, it had galloped off in the direction of Frimpton. Infact, thinking it over, Wimsey concluded that it had approached fromFrimpton, gone round the church—widdershins, naturally—by the BackLane, and returned by the high-road whence it came. But in that case——

"Turn again, Whittington," said Wimsey, and Polly Flinders rotatedobediently in the road. "Through one of those fields it went, or I'm aDutchman."

He pulled Polly into a slow walk, and passed along the strip of grassat the right-hand side, staring at the ground as though he were anAberdonian who had lost a sixpence.

The first gate led into a ploughed field, harrowed smooth and sown withautumn wheat. It was clear that no wheeled thing had been across it formany weeks. The second gate looked more promising. It gave upon fallowground, and the entrance was seamed with innumerable wheel-ruts. Onfurther examination, however, it was clear that this was the one andonly gate. It seemed unlikely that the mysterious coach should havebeen taken into a field from which there was no way out. Wimsey decidedto seek farther.

The third gate was in bad repair. It sagged heavily from its hinges;the hasp was gone, and gate and post had been secured with elaboratetwists of wire. Wimsey dismounted and examined these, convincinghimself that their rusty surface had not been recently disturbed.

There remained only two more gates before he came to the cross-roads.One led into plough again, where the dark ridge-and-furrow showed nosign of disturbance, but at sight of the last gate Wimsey's heart gavea leap.

There was plough-land here also, but round the edge of the field ran awide, beaten path, rutted and water-logged. The gate was not locked,but opened simply with a spring catch. Wimsey examined the approach.Among the wide ruts made by farm-wagons was the track of four narrowwheels—the unmistakable prints of rubber tyres. He pushed the gateopen and passed through.

The path skirted two sides of the plough; then came another gate andanother field, containing a long barrow of mangold wurzels and acouple of barns. At the sound of Polly's hoofs, a man emerged fromthe nearest barn, with a paint-brush in his hand, and stood watchingWimsey's approach.

"'Morning!" said the latter genially.

"'Morning, sir."

"Fine day after the rain."

"Yes, it is, sir."

"I hope I'm not trespassing?"

"Where was you wanting to go, sir?"

"I thought, as a matter of fact—hullo!"

"Anything wrong, sir?"

Wimsey shifted in the saddle.

"I fancy this girth's slipped a bit. It's a new one." (This was afact.) "Better have a look."

The man advanced to investigate, but Wimsey had dismounted and wastugging at the strap, with his head under the mare's belly.

"Yes, it wants taking up a trifle. Oh! Thanks most awfully. Is this ashort cut to Abbotts Bolton, by the way?"

"Not to the village, sir, though you can get through this way. It comesout by Mr. Mortimer's stables."

"Ah, yes. This his land?"

"No, sir, it's Mr. Topham's land, but Mr. Mortimer rents this field andthe next for fodder."

"Oh, yes." Wimsey peered across the hedge. "Lucerne, I suppose. Orclover."

"Clover, sir. And the mangolds is for the cattle."

"Oh—Mr. Mortimer keeps cattle as well as horses?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very jolly. Have a gasper?" Wimsey had sidled across to the barnin his interest, and was gazing absently into its dark interior. Itcontained a number of farm implements and a black fly of antiqueconstruction, which seemed to be undergoing renovation with blackvarnish. Wimsey pulled some vestas from his pocket. The box wasapparently damp, for, after one or two vain attempts he abandoned it,and struck a match on the wall of the barn. The flame, lighting up theancient fly, showed it to be incongruously fitted with rubber tyres.

"Very fine stud, Mr. Mortimer's, I understand," said Wimsey carelessly.

"Yes, sir, very fine indeed."

"I suppose he hasn't any greys, by any chance. My mother—queenlywoman, Victorian ideas, and all that—is rather keen on greys. Sports acarriage and pay-ah, don't you know."

"Yes, sir? Well, Mr. Mortimer would be able to suit the lady, I think,sir. He has several greys."

"No? has he though? I must really go over and see him. Is it far?"

"Matter of five or six mile by the fields, sir."

Wimsey looked at his watch.

"Oh, dear! I'm really afraid it's too far for this morning. Iabsolutely promised to get back to lunch. I must come over another day.Thanks so much. Is that girth right now? Oh, really, I'm immenselyobliged. Get yourself a drink, won't you—and tell Mr. Mortimer notto sell his greys till I've seen them. Well, good morning, and manythanks."

He set Polly Flinders on the homeward path and trotted gently away.Not till he was out of sight of the barn did he pull up and, stoopingfrom the saddle, thoughtfully examine his boots. They were liberallyplastered with bran.

"I must have picked it up in the barn," said Wimsey. "Curious, if true.Why should Mr. Mortimer be lashing the stuffing out of his greys in anold fly at dead of night—and with muffled hoofs and no heads to boot?It's not a kind thing to do. It frightened Plunkett very much. It mademe think I was drunk—a thought I hate to think. Ought I to tell thepolice? Are Mr. Mortimer's jokes any business of mine? What do youthink, Polly?"

The mare, hearing her name, energetically shook her head.

"You think not? Perhaps you are right. Let us say that Mr. Mortimerdid it for a wager. Who am I to interfere with his amusem*nts? Allthe same," added his lordship, "I'm glad to know it wasn't Lumsden'swhisky."

"This is the library," said Haviland, ushering in his guests. "A fineroom—and a fine collection of books, I'm told, though literature isn'tmuch in my line. It wasn't much in the governor's line, either, I'mafraid. The place wants doing up, as you see. I don't know whetherMartin will take it in hand. It's a job that'll cost money, of course."

Wimsey shivered a little as he gazed round—more from sympathy thanfrom cold, though a white November fog lay curled against the tallwindows and filtered damply through the frames.

A long, mouldering room, in the frigid neo-classical style, the librarywas melancholy enough in the sunless grey afternoon, even without thesigns of neglect which wrung the book-collector's heart. The walls,panelled to half their height with book-cases, ran up in plaster tothe moulded ceiling. Damp had blotched them into grotesque shapes, andhere and there were ugly cracks and squamous patches, from which theplaster had fallen in yellowish flakes. A wet chill seemed to oozefrom the books, from the calf bindings peeling and perishing, from thestains of greenish mildew which spread horridly from volume to volume.The curious musty odour of decayed leather and damp paper added to thegeneral cheerlessness of the atmosphere.

"Oh, dear, dear!" said Wimsey, peering dismally into this sepulchre offorgotten learning. With his shoulders hunched like the neck-feathersof a chilly bird, with his long nose and half-shut eyes, he resembled adilapidated heron, brooding over the stagnation of a wintry pool.

"What a freezing-cold place!" exclaimed Mrs. Hanco*ck. "You reallyought to scold Mrs. Lovall, Mr. Burdock. When she was put in here ascaretaker, I said to my husband—didn't I, Philip?—that your fatherhad chosen the laziest woman in Little Doddering. She ought to havekept up big fires here, at least twice a week! It's really shameful,the way she has let things go."

"Yes, isn't it?" agreed Haviland.

Wimsey said nothing. He was nosing along the shelves, every now andthen taking a volume down and glancing at it.

"It was always rather a depressing room," went on Haviland. "Iremember, when I was a kid, it used to overawe me rather. Martin andI used to browse about among the books, you know, but I think we werealways afraid that something or somebody would stalk out upon us fromthe dark corners. What's that you've got there, Lord Peter? Oh, Foxe'sBook of Martyrs. Dear me! How those pictures did terrify me in theold days! And there was a Pilgrim's Progress, with a most alarmingpicture of Apollyon straddling over the whole breadth of the way, whichgave me many nightmares. Let me see. It used to live over in this bay,I think. Yes, here it is. How it does bring it all back, to be sure! Isit valuable, by the way?"

"No, not really. But this first edition of Burton is worth money; badlyspotted, though—you'd better send it to be cleaned. And this is anextremely fine Boccaccio; take care of it."

"John Boccace—The Dance of Machabree. It's a good title, anyhow. Isthat the same Boccaccio that wrote the naughty stories?"

"Yes," said Wimsey, a little shortly. He resented this attitude towardsBoccaccio.

"Never read them," said Haviland, with a wink at his wife, "but I'veseen 'em in the windows of those surgical shops—so I suppose they'renaughty, eh? The vicar's looking shocked."

"Oh, not at all," said Mr. Hanco*ck, with a conscientious assumption ofbroad-mindedness. "Et ego in Arcadia—that is to say, one doesn'tenter the Church without undergoing a classical education, and makingthe acquaintance of much more worldly authors even than Boccaccio.Those wood-cuts are very fine, to my uninstructed eye."

"Very fine indeed," said Wimsey.

"There's another old book I remember, with jolly pictures," saidHaviland. "A chronicle of some sort—what's 'is name—place inGermany—you know—where that hangman came from. They published hisdiary the other day. I read it, but it wasn't really exciting; not halfas gruesome as old Harrison Ainsworth. What's the name of the place?"

"Nüremberg?" suggested Wimsey.

"That's it, of course—the Nüremberg Chronicle. I wonder if that'sstill in its old place. It was over here by the window, if I rememberrightly."

He led the way to the end of one of the bays, which ran up closeagainst a window. Here the damp seemed to have done its worst. A paneof glass was broken, and rain had blown in.

"Now where has it gone to? A big book, it was, with a stamped leatherbinding. I'd like to see the old Chronicle again. I haven't set eyeson it for donkey's years."

His glance roamed vaguely over the shelves. Wimsey, with thebook-lover's instinct, was the first to spot the Chronicle, wedged atthe extreme end of the shelf, against the outer wall. He hitched hisfinger into the top edge of the spine, but finding that the rottingleather was ready to crumble at a touch, he dislodged a neighbouringbook and drew the Chronicle gently out, using his whole hand.

"Here he is—in pretty bad condition, I'm afraid. Hullo!"

As he drew the book away from the wall, a piece of folded parchmentcame away with it and fell at his feet. He stooped and picked it up.

"I say, Burdock—isn't this what you've been looking for?"

Haviland Burdock, who had been rooting about on one of the lowershelves, straightened himself quickly, his face red from stooping.

"By Jove!" he said, turning first redder and then pale with excitement."Look at this, Winnie. It's the governor's will. What an extraordinarything! Whoever would have thought of looking for it here, of allplaces?"

"Is it really the will?" cried Mrs. Hanco*ck.

"No doubt about it, I should say," observed Wimsey coolly. "Last Willand Testament of Simon Burdock." He stood, turning the grimy documentover and over in his hands, looking from the endorsem*nt to the plainside of the folded parchment.

"Well, well!" said Mr. Hanco*ck. "How strange! It seems almostprovidential that you should have taken that book down."

"What does the will say?" demanded Mrs. Burdock, in some excitement.

"I beg your pardon," said Wimsey, handing it over to her. "Yes, asyou say, Mr. Hanco*ck, it does almost seem as if I was meant to findit." He glanced down again at the Chronicle, mournfully tracing withhis finger the outline of a damp stain which had rotted the cover andspread to the inner pages, almost obliterating the colophon.

Haviland Burdock meanwhile had spread the will out on the nearesttable. His wife leaned over his shoulder. The Hanco*cks, barelycontrolling their curiosity, stood near, awaiting the result. Wimsey,with an elaborate pretence of non-interference in this family matter,examined the wall against which the Chronicle had stood, feeling itsmoist surface and examining the damp-stains. They had assumed theappearance of a grinning face. He compared them with the correspondingmark on the book, and shook his head desolately over the damage.

Mr. Frobisher-Pym, who had wandered away some time before and wasabsorbed in an ancient book of Farriery, now approached, and enquiredwhat the excitement was about.

"Listen to this!" cried Haviland. His voice was quiet, but a suppressedtriumph throbbed in it and glittered from his eyes.

"'I bequeath everything of which I die possessed'—there's a lot ofenumeration of properties here, which doesn't matter—'to my eldestson, Martin'——"

Mr. Frobisher-Pym whistled.

"Listen! 'To my eldest son Martin, for so long as my body shall remainabove ground. But so soon as I am buried, I direct that the whole ofthis property shall revert to my younger son Haviland absolutely'——"

"Good God!" said Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"There's a lot more," said Haviland, "but that's the gist of it."

"Let me see," said the magistrate.

He took the will from Haviland, and read it through with a frowningface.

"That's right," he said. "No possible doubt about it. Martin has hadhis property and lost it again. How very curious. Up till yesterdayeverything belonged to him, though nobody knew it. Now it is all yours,Burdock. This certainly is the strangest will I ever saw. Just fancythat. Martin the heir, up to the time of the funeral. And now—well,Burdock, I must congratulate you."

"Thank you," said Haviland. "It is very unexpected." He laughedunsteadily.

"But what a queer idea!" cried Mrs. Burdock. "Suppose Martin had beenat home. It almost seems a mercy that he wasn't, doesn't it? I mean,it would all have been so awkward. What would have happened if he hadtried to stop the funeral, for instance?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Hanco*ck. "Could he have done anything? Who decidesabout funerals?"

"The executors, as a rule," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"Who are the executors in this case?" enquired Wimsey.

"I don't know. Let me see." Mr. Frobisher-Pym examined the documentagain. "Ah, yes! Here we are. 'I appoint my two sons, Martin andHaviland, joint executors of this my will.' What an extraordinaryarrangement."

"I call it a wicked, un-Christian arrangement," cried Mrs. Hanco*ck."It might have caused dreadful mischief if the will hadn't been—quiteprovidentially—lost!"

"Hush, my dear!" said her husband.

"I'm afraid," said Haviland grimly, "that that was my father's idea.It's no use my pretending he wasn't spiteful; he was, and I believe hehated both Martin and me like poison."

"Don't say that," pleaded the vicar.

"I do say it. He made our lives a burden to us, and he obviously wantedto go on making them a burden after he was dead. If he'd seen uscutting each other's throats, he'd only have been too pleased. Come,vicar, it's no use pretending. He hated our mother and was jealous ofus. Everybody knows that. It probably pleased his unpleasant senseof humour to think of us squabbling over his body. Fortunately, heover-reached himself when he hid the will here. He's buried now, andthe problem settles itself."

"Are you quite sure of that?" said Wimsey.

"Why, of course," said the magistrate. "The property goes to Mr.Haviland Burdock as soon as his father's body is underground. Well, hisfather was buried yesterday."

"But are you sure of that?" repeated Wimsey. He looked from one tothe other quizzically, his long lips curling into something like a grin.

"Sure of that?" exclaimed the vicar. "My dear Lord Peter, you werepresent at the funeral. You saw him buried yourself."

"I saw his coffin buried," said Wimsey mildly. "That the body was in itis merely an unverified inference."

"I think," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "this is rather an unseemly kindof jest. There is no reason to imagine that the body was not in thecoffin."

"I saw it in the coffin," said Haviland, "and so did my wife."

"And so did I," said the vicar. "I was present when it was transferredfrom the temporary shell in which it crossed over from the States toa permanent lead-and-oak coffin provided by Joliffe. And, if furtherwitnesses are necessary, you can easily get Joliffe himself and hismen, who put the body in and screwed it down."

"Just so," said Wimsey. "I'm not denying that the body was in thecoffin when the coffin was placed in the chapel. I only doubt whetherit was there when it was put in the ground."

"That is a most unheard-of suggestion to make, Lord Peter," said Mr.Frobisher-Pym, with severity. "May I ask if you have anything to goupon? And, if the body is not in the grave, perhaps you wouldn't mindtelling us where you imagine it to be?"

"Not at all," said Wimsey. He perched himself on the edge of the tableand sat, swinging his legs and looking down at his own hands, as heticked his points off on his fingers.

"I think," he said, "that this story begins with young Rawlinson. Heis a clerk in the office of Mr. Graham, who drew up this will, and Ifancy he knows something about its conditions. So, of course, doesMr. Graham, but I don't somehow suspect him of being mixed up inthis. From what I can hear, he is not a man to take sides—or not Mr.Martin's side, at any rate.

"When the news of Mr. Burdock's death was cabled over from theStates, I think young Rawlinson remembered the terms of the will, andconsidered that Mr. Martin—being abroad and all that—would be ratherat a disadvantage. Rawlinson must be rather attached to your brother,by the way——"

"Martin always had a way of picking up good-for-nothing youths andwasting his time with them," agreed Haviland sulkily.

The vicar seemed to feel that this statement needed some amendment, andmurmured that he had always heard how good Martin was with the villagelads.

"Quite so," said Wimsey. "Well, I think young Rawlinson wanted to giveMartin an equal chance of securing the legacy, don't you see. He didn'tlike to say anything about the will—which might or might not turnup—and possibly he thought that even if it did turn up there might bedifficulties. Well, anyway, he decided that the best thing to do was tosteal the body and keep it above-ground till Martin came home to see tothings himself."

"This is an extraordinary accusation," began Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"I dare say I'm mistaken," said Wimsey, "but it's just my idea. Itmakes a damn good story, anyhow—you see! Well, then, young Rawlinsonsaw that this was too big a job to carry out alone, so he looked roundfor somebody to help him. And he pitched on Mr. Mortimer."

"Mortimer?"

"I don't know Mr. Mortimer personally, but he seems to be a sportin'sort of customer from what I can hear, with certain facilities whicheverybody hasn't got. Young Rawlinson and Mortimer put their headstogether and worked out a plan of action. Of course, Mr. Hanco*ck, youhelped them enormously with this lying-in-state idea of yours. Withoutthat, I don't know if they could have worked it."

Mr. Hanco*ck made an embarrassed clucking sound.

"The idea was this. Mortimer was to provide an antique fly and fourwhite horses, made up with luminous paint and black cloth to representthe Burdock death-coach. The advantage of that idea was that nobodywould feel inclined to inspect the turn-out too closely if they sawit hangin' round the churchyard at unearthly hours. Meanwhile, youngRawlinson had to get himself accepted as a watcher for the chapel, andto find a sporting companion to watch with him and take a hand in thegame. He fixed things up with the publican-fellow, and spun a tale forMr. Hanco*ck, so as to get the vigil from four to six. Didn't it strikeyou as odd, Mr. Hanco*ck, that he should be so keen to come all the wayfrom Herriotting?"

"I am accustomed to find keenness in my congregation," said Mr. Hanco*ckstiffly.

"Yes, but Rawlinson didn't belong to your congregation. Anyway it wasall worked out, and there was a dress-rehearsal on the Wednesday night,which frightened your man Plunkett into fits, sir."

"If I thought this was true——" said Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"On Thursday night," pursued Wimsey, "the conspirators were ready,hidden in the chancel at two in the morning. They waited till Mrs. andMiss Hanco*ck had taken their places, and then made a row to attracttheir attention. When the ladies courageously advanced to find out whatwas up, they popped out and bundled 'em into the vestry."

"Good gracious!" said Mrs. Hanco*ck.

"That was when the death-coach affair was timed to drive up to thesouth door. It came round the Back Lane, I fancy, though I can't besure. Then Mortimer and the other two took the embalmed body out ofthe coffin and filled its place up with bags of sawdust. I know it wassawdust, because I found the remains of it on the Lady-chapel floorin the morning. They put the body in the fly, and Mortimer drove offwith it. They passed me on the Herriotting Road at half-past two, sothey can't have wasted much time over the job. Mortimer may have beenalone, or possibly he had someone with him to see to the body while hehimself did the headless coachman business in a black mask. I'm notcertain about that. They drove through the last gate before you come tothe fork at Frimpton, and went across the fields to Mortimer's barn.They left the fly there—I know that, because I saw it, and I saw thebran they used to muffle the horses' hoofs, too. I expect they took iton from there in a car, and fetched the horses up next day—but that'sa detail. I don't know, either, where they took the body to, but Iexpect, if you went and asked Mortimer about it, he would be able toassure you that it was still above ground."

Wimsey paused. Mr. Frobisher-Pym and the Hanco*cks were looking onlypuzzled and angry, but Haviland's face was green. Mrs. Havilandshowed a red, painted spot on each cheek, and her mouth was haggard.Wimsey picked up the Nüremberg Chronicle and caressed its coversthoughtfully as he went on.

"Meanwhile, of course, young Rawlinson and his companion were doing thecamouflage in the church, to give the idea of a Protestant outrage.Having fixed everything up neat and pretty, all they had to do was tolock themselves up in the furnace-house and chuck the key through thewindow. You'll probably find it there, Mr. Hanco*ck, if you care tolook. Didn't you think that story of an assault by two or three men wasa bit thin? Hubbard is a hefty great fellow, and Rawlinson's a sturdylad—and yet, on their own showing, they were bundled into a coal-holelike helpless infants, without a scratch on either of 'em. Look for themen in buckram, my dear sir, look for the men in buckram!"

"Look here, Wimsey, are you sure you're not romancing?" said Mr.Frobisher-Pym. "One would need some very clear proof before——"

"Certainly," said Wimsey. "Get a Home Office order. Open the grave.You'll soon see whether it's true or whether it's just my diseasedimagination."

"I think this whole conversation is disgusting," cried Mrs. Burdock."Don't listen to it, Haviland. Anything more heartless on the day afterfather's funeral than sitting here and inventing such a revolting storyI simply can't imagine. It is not worth paying a moment's attention to.You will certainly not permit your father's body to be disturbed. It'shorrible. It's a desecration."

"It is very unpleasant indeed," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym gravely, "but ifLord Peter is seriously putting forward this astonishing theory, whichI can scarcely credit——"

Wimsey shrugged his shoulders.

"—then I feel bound to remind you, Mr. Burdock, that your brother,when he returns, may insist on having the matter investigated."

"But he can't, can he?" said Mrs. Burdock.

"Of course he can, Winnie," snapped her husband savagely. "He's anexecutor. He has as much right to have the governor dug up as I have toforbid it. Don't be a fool."

"If Martin had any decency, he would forbid it, too," said Mrs. Burdock.

"Oh, well!" said Mrs. Hanco*ck, "shocking as it may seem, there's themoney to be considered. Mr. Martin might think it a duty to his wife,and his family, if he should ever have any——"

"The whole thing is preposterous," said Haviland decidedly. "I don'tbelieve a word of it. If I did, naturally I should be the first personto take action in the matter—not only in justice to Martin, but on myown account. But if you ask me to believe that a responsible man likeMortimer would purloin a corpse and desecrate a church—the thing onlyhas to be put into plain words to show how absurd and unthinkable itis. I suppose Lord Peter Wimsey, who consorts, as I understand, withcriminals and police officers, finds the idea conceivable. I can onlysay that I do not. I am sorry that his mind should have become soblunted to all decent feeling. That's all. Good afternoon."

Mr. Frobisher-Pym jumped up.

"Come, come, Burdock, don't take that attitude. I am sure Lord Peterintended no discourtesy. I must say I think he's all wrong, but, 'ponmy soul, things have been so disturbed in the village these last fewdays, I'm not surprised anybody should think there was something behindit. Now, let's forget about it—and hadn't we better be moving out ofthis terribly cold room? It's nearly dinner-time. Bless me, what willAgatha think of us?"

Wimsey held out his hand to Burdock, who took it reluctantly.

"I'm sorry," said Wimsey. "I suffer from hypertrophy of theimagination, y'know. Over-stimulation of the thyroid probably. Don'tmind me. I apologise, and all that."

"I don't think, Lord Peter," said Mrs. Burdock acidly, "you ought toexercise your imagination at the expense of good taste."

Wimsey followed her from the room in some confusion. Indeed, he was sodisturbed that he carried away the Nüremberg Chronicle beneath hisarm, which was an odd thing for him to do under the circ*mstances.

"I am gravely distressed," said Mr. Hanco*ck.

He had come over, after Sunday evening service, to call upon theFrobisher-Pyms. He sat upright on his chair, his thin face flushed withanxiety.

"I could never have believed such a thing of Hubbard. It has been agrievous shock to me. It is not only the great wickedness of stealing adead body from the very precincts of the church, though that is graveenough. It is the sad hypocrisy of his behaviour—the mockery of sacredthings—the making use of the holy services of his religion to furtherworldly ends. He actually attended the funeral, Mr. Frobisher-Pym, andexhibited every sign of grief and respect. Even now he hardly seems torealise the sinfulness of his conduct. I feel it very much, as a priestand as a pastor—very much indeed."

"Oh, well, Hanco*ck," said Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "you must make allowances,you know. Hubbard's not a bad fellow, but you can't expect refinementof feeling from a man of his class. The point is, what are we to doabout it? Mr. Burdock must be told, of course. It's a most awkwardsituation. Dear me! Hubbard confessed the whole conspiracy, you say?How did he come to do that?"

"I taxed him with it," said the parson. "When I came to think overLord Peter Wimsey's remarks, I was troubled in my mind. It seemed tome—I cannot say why—that there might be some truth in the story,wild as it appeared. I was so worried about it that I swept the floorof the Lady-chapel myself last night, and I found quite a quantityof sawdust among the sweepings. That led me to search for the key ofthe furnace-house, and I discovered it in some bushes at a littledistance—in fact, within a stone's throw—of the furnace-house window.I sought guidance in prayer—and from my wife, whose judgment I greatlyrespect—and I made up my mind to speak to Hubbard after Mass. Itwas a great relief to me that he did not present himself at EarlyCelebration. Feeling as I did, I should have had scruples."

"Just so, just so," said the magistrate, a little impatiently. "Well,you taxed him with it, and he confessed?"

"He did. I am sorry to say he showed no remorse at all. He evenlaughed. It was a most painful interview."

"I am sure it must have been," said Mrs. Frobisher-Pym sympathetically.

"We must go and see Mr. Burdock," said the magistrate, rising."Whatever old Burdock may or may not have intended by that iniquitouswill of his, it's quite evident that Hubbard and Mortimer and Rawlinsonwere entirely in the wrong. Upon my word, I've no idea whether it's anindictable offence to steal a body. I must look it up. But I shouldsay it was. If there is any property in a corpse, it must belong tothe family or the executors. And in any case, it's sacrilege, to saynothing of the scandal in the parish. I must say, Hanco*ck, it won't dous any good in the eyes of the Nonconformists. However, no doubt yourealise that. Well, it's an unpleasant job, and the sooner we tackleit the better. I'll run over to the vicarage with you and help you tobreak it to the Burdocks. How about you, Wimsey? You were right, afterall, and I think Burdock owes you an apology."

"Oh, I'll keep out of it," said Wimsey. "I shan't be exactly personagrata, don't you know. It's going to mean a deuce of a big financialloss to the Haviland Burdocks."

"So it is. Most unpleasant. Well, perhaps you're right. Come along,vicar."

Wimsey and his hostess sat discussing the matter by the fire for halfan hour or so, when Mr. Frobisher-Pym suddenly put his head in and said:

"I say, Wimsey—we're all going over to Mortimer's. I wish you'd comeand drive the car. Merridew always has the day off on Sunday, and Idon't care about driving at night, particularly in this fog."

"Right you are," said Wimsey. He ran upstairs, and came down in afew moments wearing a heavy leather flying-coat, and with a parcelunder his arm. He greeted the Burdocks briefly, climbed into thedriving-seat, and was soon steering cautiously through the mist alongthe Herriotting Road.

He smiled a little grimly to himself as they came up under the treesto the spot where the phantom coach had passed him. As they passed thegate through which the ingenious apparition had vanished, he indulgedhimself by pointing it out, and was rewarded by hearing a snarl fromHaviland. At the well-remembered fork, he took the right-hand turninginto Frimpton and drove steadily for six miles or so, till a warningshout from Mr. Frobisher-Pym summoned him to look out for the turningup to Mortimer's.

Mr. Mortimer's house, with its extensive stabling and farm buildings,stood about two miles back from the main road. In the darkness Wimseycould see little of it; but he noticed that the ground-floor windowswere all lit up, and, when the door opened to the magistrate'simperative ring, a loud burst of laughter from the interior gaveevidence that Mr. Mortimer was not taking his misdoings too seriously.

"Is Mr. Mortimer at home?" demanded Mr. Frobisher-Pym, in the tone of aman not to be trifled with.

"Yes, sir. Will you come in, please?"

They stepped into a large, old-fashioned hall, brilliantly lit, andmade cosy with a heavy oak screen across the door. As Wimsey advanced,blinking, from the darkness, he saw a large, thick-set man, with aruddy face, advancing with hand outstretched in welcome.

"Frobisher-Pym! By Jove! how decent of you to come over! We've got someold friends of yours here. Oh!" (in a slightly altered tone) "Burdock!Well, well——"

"Damn you!" said Haviland Burdock, thrusting furiously past themagistrate, who was trying to hold him back. "Damn you, you swine!Chuck this bloody farce. What have you done with the body?"

"The body, eh?" said Mr. Mortimer, retreating in some confusion.

"Yes, curse you! Your friend Hubbard's split. It's no good denying it.What the devil do you mean by it? You've got the body here somewhere.Where is it? Hand it over!"

He strode threateningly round the screen into the lamplight. A tall,thin man rose up unexpectedly from the depths of an arm-chair andconfronted him.

"Hold hard, old man!"

"Good God!" said Haviland, stepping heavily back on Wimsey's toes."Martin!"

"Sure," said the other. "Here I am. Come back like a bad half-penny.How are you?"

"So you're at the bottom of this!" stormed Haviland. "I might haveknown it. You damned, dirty hound! I suppose you think it's decent todrag your father out of his coffin and tote him about the country likea circus. It's degrading. It's disgusting. It's abominable. You must beperfectly dead to all decent feeling. You don't deny it, I suppose?"

"I say, Burdock!" expostulated Mortimer.

"Shut up, curse you!" said Haviland. "I'll deal with you in a minute.Now, look here, Martin, I'm not going to stand any more of thisdisgraceful behaviour. You'll give up that body, and——"

"Just a moment, just a moment," said Martin. He stood, smiling alittle, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dinner-jacket. "Thiséclaircissem*nt seems to be rather public. Who are all these people?Oh, it's the vicar, I see. I'm afraid we owe you a little explanation,vicar. And, er——"

"This is Lord Peter Wimsey," put in Mr. Frobisher-Pym, "who discoveredyour—I'm afraid, Burdock, I must agree with your brother in calling ityour disgraceful plot."

"Oh, Lord!" said Martin. "I say, Mortimer, you didn't know you were upagainst Lord Peter Wimsey, did you? No wonder the cat got out of thebag. The man's known to be a perfect Sherlock. However, I seem to havegot home at the crucial moment, so there's no harm done. Diana, this isLord Peter Wimsey—my wife."

A young and pretty woman in a black evening dress greeted Wimsey with ashy smile, and turned deprecatingly to her brother-in-law.

"Haviland, we want to explain——"

He paid no attention to her.

"Now then, Martin, the game's up."

"I think it is, Haviland. But why make all this racket?"

"Racket! I like that. You take your own father's body out of itscoffin——"

"No, no, Haviland. I knew nothing about it. I swear that. I only gotthe news of his death a few days ago. We were right out in the wilds,filming a show in the Pyrenees, and I came straight back as soon as Icould get away. Mortimer here, with Rawlinson and Hubbard, staged thewhole show by themselves. I never heard a word about it till yesterdaymorning in Paris, when I found his letter waiting at my old digs.Honestly, Haviland, I had nothing to do with it. Why should I? I didn'tneed to."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if I'd been here, I should only have had to speak to stop thefuneral altogether. Why on earth should I have gone to the trouble ofstealing the body? Quite apart from the irreverence and all that. As itis, when Mortimer told me about it, I must say I was a bit revolted atthe idea, though I appreciated the kindness and the trouble they'd beento on my account. I think Mr. Hanco*ck has most cause for wrath, really.But Mortimer has been as careful as possible, sir—really he has. Hehas placed the old governor quite reverently and decently in what usedto be the chapel, and put flowers round him and so on. You will bequite satisfied, I'm sure."

"Yes, yes," said Mortimer. "No disrespect intended, don't you know.Come and see him."

"This is dreadful," said the vicar helplessly.

"They had to do the best they could, don't you see, in my absence,"said Martin. "As soon as I can, I'll make proper arrangements for asuitable tomb—above ground, of course. Or possibly cremation would fitthe case."

"What!" gasped Haviland. "Do you mean to say you imagine I'm going tolet my father stay unburied, simply because of your disgusting greedabout money?"

"My dear chap, do you think I'm going to let you put him underground,simply to enable you to grab my property?"

"I'm the executor of his will, and I say he shall be buried, whetheryou like it or not!"

"And I'm an executor too—and I say he shan't be buried. He can bekept absolutely decently above ground, and he shall be."

"But hear me," said the vicar, distracted between these twodisagreeable and angry young men.

"I'll see what Graham says about you," bawled Haviland.

"Oh, yes—the honest lawyer, Graham," sneered Martin. "He knew whatwas in the will, didn't he? I suppose he didn't mention it to you, byany chance?"

"He did not," retorted Haviland. "He knew too well the sort of skunkyou were to say anything about it. Not content with disgracing uswith your miserable, blackmailing marriage——"

"Mr. Burdock, Mr. Burdock——"

"Take care, Haviland!"

"You have no more decency——"

"Stop it!"

"Than to steal your father's body and my money so that you and yourdamned wife can carry on your loose-living, beastly ways with a parcelof film-actors and chorus-girls——"

"Now then, Haviland. Keep your tongue off my wife and my friends. Howabout your own? Somebody told me Winnie'd been going the pace prettywell—next door to bankruptcy, aren't you, with the gees and the tablesand God knows what! No wonder you want to do your brother out of hismoney. I never thought much of you, Haviland, but by God——"

"One moment!"

Mr. Frobisher-Pym at last succeeded in asserting himself, partlythrough the habit of authority, and partly because the brothers hadshouted themselves breathless.

"One moment, Martin. I will call you so, because I have known you along time, and your father too. I understand your anger at the thingsHaviland has said. They were unpardonable, as I am sure he will realisewhen he comes to his right mind. But you must remember that he hasbeen greatly shocked and upset—as we all have been—by this very verypainful business. And it is not fair to say that Haviland has tried to'do you out' of anything. He knew nothing about this iniquitous will,and he naturally saw to it that the funeral arrangements were carriedout in the usual way. You must settle the future amicably between you,just as you would have done had the will not been accidentally mislaid.Now, Martin—and Haviland too—think it over. My dear boys, this sceneis simply appalling. It really must not happen. Surely the estate canbe divided up in a friendly manner between you. It is horrible that anold man's body should be a bone of contention between his own sons,just over a matter of money."

"I'm sorry," said Martin. "I forgot myself. You're quite right, sir.Look here, Haviland, forget it. I'll let you have half the money——"

"Half the money! But it's all mine. You'll let me have half? Howdamned generous! My own money!"

"No, old man. It's mine at the moment. The governor's not buried yet,you know. That's right, isn't it, Mr. Frobisher-Pym?"

"Yes; the money is yours, legally, at this moment. You must see that,Haviland. But your brother offers you half, and——"

"Half! I'm damned if I'll take half. The man's tried to swindle me outof it. I'll send for the police, and have him put in gaol for robbingthe Church. You see if I don't. Give me the telephone."

"Excuse me," said Wimsey. "I don't want to butt in on your familyaffairs any more than I have already, but I really don't advise you tosend for the police."

"You don't, eh? What the hell's it got to do with you?"

"Well," said Wimsey deprecatingly, "if this will business comes intocourt, I shall probably have to give evidence, because I was the birdwho found the thing, don't you see?"

"Well, then?"

"Well, then. They might ask how long the will was supposed to have beenwhere I found it."

Haviland appeared to swallow something which obstructed his speech.

"What about it, curse you!"

"Yes. Well, you see, it's rather odd when you come to think of it.I mean, your late father must have hidden that will in the bookcasebefore he went abroad. That was—how long ago? Three years? Five years?"

"About four years."

"Quite. And since then your bright caretaker has let the damp get intothe library, hasn't she? No fires, and the window getting broken,and so on. Ruinous to the books. Very distressin' to anybody likemyself, you know. Yes. Well, supposin' they asked that question aboutthe will—and you said it had been there in the damp for four years.Wouldn't they think it a bit funny if I told 'em that there was a bigdamp stain like a grinning face on the end of the bookshelf, and abig, damp, grinning face on the jolly old Nüremberg Chronicle tocorrespond with it, and no stain on the will which had been sittin' forfour years between the two?"

Mrs. Haviland screamed suddenly. "Haviland! You fool! You utter fool!"

"Shut up!"

Haviland snapped round at his wife with a cry of rage, and shecollapsed into a chair, with her hand snatched to her mouth.

"Thank you, Winnie," said Martin. "No, Haviland—don't trouble toexplain. Winnie's given the show away. So you knew—you knew aboutthe will, and you deliberately hid it away and let the funeral goon. I'm immensely obliged to you—nearly as obliged as I am to thediscreet Graham. Is it fraud or conspiracy or what, to conceal wills?Mr. Frobisher-Pym will know."

"Dear, dear!" said the magistrate. "Are you certain of your facts,Wimsey?"

"Positive," said Wimsey, producing the Nüremberg Chronicle fromunder his arm. "Here's the stain—you can see it yourself. Forgive mefor having borrowed your property, Mr. Burdock. I was rather afraidMr. Haviland might think this little discrepancy over in the stillwatches of the night, and decide to sell the Chronicle, or give itaway, or even think it looked better without its back pages and cover.Allow me to return it to you, Mr. Martin—intact. You will perhapsexcuse my saying that I don't very much admire any of the rôles in thismelodrama. It throws, as Mr. Pecksniff would say, a sad light on humannature. But I resent extremely the way in which I was wangled up tothat bookshelf and made to be the bright little independent witness whofound the will. I may be an ass, Mr. Haviland Burdock, but I'm not abloody ass. Good night. I will wait in the car till you are all ready."

Wimsey stalked out with some dignity.

Presently he was followed by the vicar and by Mr. Frobisher-Pym.

"Mortimer's taking Haviland and his wife to the station," said themagistrate. "They're going back to town at once. You can send theirtraps off in the morning, Hanco*ck. We'd better make ourselves scarce."

Wimsey pressed the self-starter.

As he did so, a man ran hastily down the steps and came up to him. Itwas Martin.

"I say," he muttered. "You've done me a good turn—more than I deserve,I'm afraid. You must think I'm a damned swine. But I'll see the old mandecently put away, and I'll share with Haviland. You mustn't judge himtoo hardly, either. That wife of his is an awful woman. Run him overhead and ears in debt. Bust up his business. I'll see it's all squaredup. See? Don't want you to think us too awful."

"Oh, right-ho!" said Wimsey.

He slipped in the clutch, and faded away into the wet, white fog.

THE VINDICTIVE STORY OF THE FOOTSTEPS THAT RAN

Mr. Bunter withdrew his head from beneath the focusing cloth.

"I fancy that will be quite adequate, sir," he said deferentially,"unless there are any further patients, if I may call them so, whichyou would wish put on record."

"Not to-day," replied the doctor. He took the last stricken ratgently from the table, and replaced it in its cage with an air ofsatisfaction. "Perhaps on Wednesday, if Lord Peter can kindly spareyour services once again——"

"What's that?" murmured his lordship, withdrawing his long nose fromthe investigation of a number of unattractive-looking glass jars. "Niceold dog," he added vaguely. "Wags his tail when you mention his name,what? Are these monkey-glands, Hartman, or a south-west elevation ofCleopatra's duodenum?"

"You don't know anything, do you?" said the young physician, laughing."No use playing your bally-fool-with-an-eyeglass tricks on me, Wimsey.I'm up to them. I was saying to Bunter that I'd be no end grateful ifyou'd let him turn up again three days hence to register the progressof the specimens—always supposing they do progress, that is."

"Why ask, dear old thing?" said his lordship. "Always a pleasure toassist a fellow-sleuth, don't you know. Trackin' down murderers—allin the same way of business and all that. All finished? Good egg! Bythe way, if you don't have that cage mended you'll lose one of yourpatients—Number 5. The last wire but one is workin' loose—assisted bythe intelligent occupant. Jolly little beasts, ain't they? No need ofdentists—wish I was a rat—wire much better for the nerves than thatfizzlin' drill."

Dr. Hartman uttered a little exclamation.

"How in the world did you notice that, Wimsey? I didn't think you'deven looked at the cage."

"Built noticin'—improved by practice," said Lord Peter quietly."Anythin' wrong leaves a kind of impression on the eye; brain trotsalong afterwards with the warnin'. I saw that when we came in. Onlyjust grasped it. Can't say my mind was glued on the matter. Shows thevictim's improvin', anyhow. All serene, Bunter?"

"Everything perfectly satisfactory, I trust, my lord," replied themanservant. He had packed up his camera and plates, and was quietlyrestoring order in the little laboratory, whose fittings—compact asthose of an ocean liner—had been disarranged for the experiment.

"Well," said the doctor, "I am enormously obliged to you, LordPeter, and to Bunter too. I am hoping for a great result from theseexperiments, and you cannot imagine how valuable an assistance it willbe to me to have a really good series of photographs. I can't affordthis sort of thing—yet," he added, his rather haggard young facewistful as he looked at the great camera, "and I can't do the work atthe hospital. There's no time; I've got to be here. A struggling G.P.can't afford to let his practice go, even in Bloomsbury. There aretimes when even a half-crown visit makes all the difference betweenmaking both ends meet and having an ugly hiatus."

"As Mr. Micawber said," replied Wimsey, "'Income twenty pounds,expenditure nineteen, nineteen, six—result: happiness; expendituretwenty pounds, ought, six—result: misery.' Don't prostrateyourself in gratitude, old bean; nothin' Bunter loves like messin'round with pyro and hyposulphite. Keeps his hand in. All kinds ofpractice welcome. Finger-prints and process plates spell seventhwhat-you-may-call-it of bliss, but focal-plane work on scurvy-riddenrodents (good phrase!) acceptable if no crime forthcoming. Crimeshave been rather short lately. Been eatin' our heads off, haven't we,Bunter? Don't know what's come over London. I've taken to prying intomy neighbour's affairs to keep from goin' stale. Frightened the postmaninto a fit the other day by askin' him how his young lady at Croydonwas. He's a married man, livin' in Great Ormond Street."

"How did you know?"

"Well, I didn't really. But he lives just opposite to a friend ofmine—Inspector Parker; and his wife—not Parker's; he's unmarried;the postman's, I mean—asked Parker the other day whether the flyin'shows at Croydon went on all night. Parker, bein' flummoxed, said'No,' without thinkin'. Bit of a give-away, what? Thought I'd give thepoor devil a word in season, don't you know. Uncommonly thoughtless ofParker."

The doctor laughed. "You'll stay to lunch, won't you?" he said. "Onlycold meat and salad, I'm afraid. My woman won't come Sundays. Have toanswer my own door. Deuced unprofessional, I'm afraid, but it can't behelped."

"Pleasure," said Wimsey, as they emerged from the laboratory andentered the dark little flat by the back door. "Did you build thisplace on?"

"No," said Hartman; "the last tenant did that. He was an artist. That'swhy I took the place. It comes in very useful, ramshackle as it is,though this glass roof is a bit sweltering on a hot day like this.Still, I had to have something on the ground-floor, cheap, and it'll dotill times get better."

"Till your vitamin experiments make you famous, eh?" said Petercheerfully. "You're goin' to be the comin' man, you know. Feel it in mybones. Uncommonly neat little kitchen you've got, anyhow."

"It does," said the doctor. "The lab. makes it a bit gloomy, but thewoman's only here in the daytime."

He led the way into a narrow little dining-room, where the tablewas laid for a cold lunch. The one window at the end farthest fromthe kitchen looked out into Great James Street. The room was littlemore than a passage, and full of doors—the kitchen door, a door inthe adjacent wall leading into the entrance-hall, and a third onthe opposite side, through which his visitor caught a glimpse of amoderate-sized consulting-room.

Lord Peter Wimsey and his host sat down to table, and the doctorexpressed a hope that Mr. Bunter would sit down with them. That correctperson, however, deprecated any such suggestion.

"If I might venture to indicate my own preference, sir," he said, "itwould be to wait upon you and his lordship in the usual manner."

"It's no use," said Wimsey. "Bunter likes me to know my place.Terrorisin' sort of man, Bunter. Can't call my soul my own. Carry on,Bunter; we wouldn't presume for the world."

Mr. Bunter handed the salad, and poured out the water with a gravedecency appropriate to a crusted old tawny port.

It was a Sunday afternoon in that halcyon summer of 1921. The sordidlittle street was almost empty. The ice-cream man alone seemed thrivingand active. He leaned luxuriously on the green post at the corner,in the intervals of driving a busy trade. Bloomsbury's swarm ofable-bodied and able-voiced infants was still presumably within-doors,eating steamy Sunday dinners inappropriate to the tropical weather. Theonly disturbing sounds came from the flat above, where heavy footstepspassed rapidly to and fro.

"Who's the merry-and-bright bloke above?" enquired Lord Peterpresently. "Not an early riser, I take it. Not that anybody is on aSunday mornin'. Why an inscrutable Providence ever inflicted such aghastly day on people livin' in town I can't imagine. I ought to be inthe country, but I've got to meet a friend at Victoria this afternoon.Such a day to choose.... Who's the lady? Wife or accomplished friend?Gather she takes a properly submissive view of woman's duties in thehome, either way. That's the bedroom overhead, I take it."

Hartman looked at Lord Peter in some surprise.

"'Scuse my beastly inquisitiveness, old thing," said Wimsey. "Badhabit. Not my business."

"How did you——"

"Guesswork," said Lord Peter, with disarming frankness. "I heard thesquawk of an iron bedstead on the ceiling and a heavy fellow get outwith a bump, but it may quite well be a couch or something. Anyway,he's been potterin' about in his stocking feet over these few feet offloor for the last half-hour, while the woman has been clatterin' toand fro, in and out of the kitchen and away into the sittin'-room, withher high heels on, ever since we've been here. Hence deduction as todomestic habits of the first-floor tenants."

"I thought," said the doctor, with an aggrieved expression, "you'dbeen listening to my valuable exposition of the beneficial effects ofVitamin B, and Lind's treatment of scurvy with fresh lemons in 1755."

"I was listenin'" agreed Lord Peter hastily, "but I heard the footstepsas well. Fellow's toddled into the kitchen—only wanted the matches,though; he's gone off into the sittin'-room and left her to carry onthe good work. What was I sayin'? Oh, yes! You see, as I was sayin'before, one hears a thing or sees it without knowin' or thinkin' aboutit. Then afterwards one starts meditatin', and it all comes back,and one sorts out one's impressions. Like those plates of Bunter's.Picture's all there, l—la—what's the word I want, Bunter?"

"Latent, my lord."

"That's it. My right-hand man, Bunter; couldn't do a thing withouthim. The picture's latent till you put the developer on. Same with thebrain. No mystery. Little grey books all my respected grandmother!Little grey matter's all you want to remember things with. As a matterof curiosity, was I right about those people above?"

"Perfectly. The man's a gas-company's inspector. A bit surly, butdevoted (after his own fashion) to his wife. I mean, he doesn't mindhulking in bed on a Sunday morning and letting her do the chores, buthe spends all the money he can spare on giving her pretty hats and furcoats and what not. They've only been married about six months. I wascalled in to her when she had a touch of 'flu in the spring, and he wasalmost off his head with anxiety. She's a lovely little woman, I mustsay—Italian. He picked her up in some eating-place in Soho, I believe.Glorious dark hair and eyes; Venus sort of figure; proper contours inall the right places; good skin—all that sort of thing. She was a bitof a draw to that restaurant while she was there, I fancy. Lively. Shehad an old admirer round here one day—awkward little Italian fellow,with a knife—active as a monkey. Might have been unpleasant, but Ihappened to be on the spot, and her husband came along. People arealways laying one another out in these streets. Good for business, ofcourse, but one gets tired of tying up broken heads and slits in thejugular. Still, I suppose the girl can't help being attractive, thoughI don't say she's what you might call stand-offish in her manner. She'ssincerely fond of Brotherton, I think, though—that's his name."

Wimsey nodded inattentively. "I suppose life is a bit monotonous here,"he said.

"Professionally, yes. Births and drunks and wife-beatings are prettycommon. And all the usual ailments, of course. Just at present I'mliving on infant diarrhœa chiefly—bound to, this hot weather, youknow. With the autumn, 'flu and bronchitis set in. I may get anoccasional pneumonia. Legs, of course, and varicose veins——God!"cried the doctor explosively, "if only I could get away, and do myexperiments!"

"Ah!" said Peter, "where's that eccentric old millionaire with amysterious disease, who always figures in the novels? A lightningdiagnosis—a miraculous cure—'God bless you, doctor; here are fivethousand pounds'—Harley Street——"

"That sort doesn't live in Bloomsbury," said the doctor.

"It must be fascinatin', diagnosin' things," said Peter thoughtfully."How d'you do it? I mean, is there a regular set of symptoms for eachdisease, like callin' a club to show you want your partner to go notrumps? You don't just say: 'This fellow's got a pimple on his nose,therefore he has fatty degeneration of the heart——'"

"I hope not," said the doctor drily.

"Or is it more like gettin' a clue to a crime?" went on Peter. "Yousee somethin'—a room, or a body, say, all knocked about anyhow, andthere's a damn sight of symptoms of somethin' wrong, and you've gotjust to pick out the ones which tell the story?"

"That's more like it," said Dr. Hartman. "Some symptoms are significantin themselves—like the condition of the gums in scurvy, let ussay—others in conjunction with——"

He broke off, and both sprang to their feet as a shrill scream soundedsuddenly from the flat above, followed by a heavy thud. A man's voicecried out lamentably; feet ran violently to and fro; then, as thedoctor and his guests stood frozen in consternation, came the manhimself—falling down the stairs in his haste, hammering at Hartman'sdoor.

"Help! Help! Let me in! My wife! He's murdered her!"

They ran hastily to the door and let him in. He was a big, fair man, inhis shirt-sleeves and stockings. His hair stood up, and his face wasset in bewildered misery.

"She is dead—dead. He was her lover," he groaned. "Come and look—takeher away——Doctor! I have lost my wife! My Maddalena——" He paused,looked wildly for a moment, and then said hoarsely, "Someone's beenin—somehow—stabbed her—murdered her. I'll have the law on him,doctor. Come quickly—she was cooking the chicken for my dinner.Ah-h-h!"

He gave a long, hysterical shriek, which ended in a hiccupping laugh.The doctor took him roughly by the arm and shook him. "Pull yourselftogether, Mr. Brotherton," he said sharply. "Perhaps she is only hurt.Stand out of the way!"

"Only hurt?" said the man, sitting heavily down on the nearest chair."No—no—she is dead—little Maddalena——Oh, my God!"

Dr. Hartman snatched a roll of bandages and a few surgical appliancesfrom the consulting-room, and he ran upstairs, followed closely by LordPeter. Bunter remained for a few moments to combat hysterics with coldwater. Then he stepped across to the dining-room window and shouted.

"Well, wot is it?" cried a voice from the street.

"Would you be so kind as to step in here a minute, officer?" said Mr.Bunter. "There's been murder done."

When Brotherton and Bunter arrived upstairs with the constable, theyfound Dr. Hartman and Lord Peter in the little kitchen. The doctor waskneeling beside the woman's body. At their entrance he looked up, andshook his head.

"Death instantaneous," he said. "Clean through the heart. Poor child.She cannot have suffered at all. Oh, constable, it is very fortunateyou are here. Murder appears to have been done—though I'm afraid theman has escaped. Probably Mr. Brotherton can give us some help. He wasin the flat at the time."

The man had sunk down on a chair, and was gazing at the body witha face from which all meaning seemed to have been struck out. Thepoliceman produced a notebook.

"Now, sir," he said, "don't let's waste any time. Sooner we can get towork the more likely we are to catch our man. Now, you was 'ere at thetime, was you?"

Brotherton stared a moment, then, making a violent effort, he answeredsteadily:

"I was in the sitting-room, smoking and reading the paper.My—she—was getting the dinner ready in here. I heard her give ascream, and I rushed in and found her lying on the floor. She didn'thave time to say anything. When I found she was dead, I rushed to thewindow, and saw the fellow scrambling away over the glass roof there. Iyelled at him, but he disappeared. Then I ran down——"

"'Arf a mo'," said the policeman. "Now, see 'ere, sir, didn't you thinkto go after 'im at once?"

"My first thought was for her," said the man. "I thought maybe shewasn't dead. I tried to bring her round——" His speech ended in agroan.

"You say he came in through the window," said the policeman.

"I beg your pardon, officer," interrupted Lord Peter, who had beenapparently making a mental inventory of the contents of the kitchen."Mr. Brotherton suggested that the man went out through the window.It's better to be accurate."

"It's the same thing," said the doctor. "It's the only way he couldhave come in. These flats are all alike. The staircase door leads intothe sitting-room, and Mr. Brotherton was there, so the man couldn'thave come that way."

"And," said Peter, "he didn't get in through the bedroom window, or weshould have seen him. We were in the room below. Unless, indeed, he lethimself down from the roof. Was the door between the bedroom and thesitting-room open?" he asked suddenly, turning to Brotherton.

The man hesitated a moment. "Yes," he said finally. "Yes, I'm sure itwas."

"Could you have seen the man if he had come through the bedroom window?"

"I couldn't have helped seeing him."

"Come, come, sir," said the policeman, with some irritation, "betterlet me ask the questions. Stands to reason the fellow wouldn't get inthrough the bedroom window in full view of the street."

"How clever of you to think of that," said Wimsey. "Of course not.Never occurred to me. Then it must have been this window, as you say."

"And, what's more, here's his marks on the window-sill," said theconstable triumphantly, pointing to some blurred traces among theLondon soot. "That's right. Down he goes by that drain-pipe, over theglass roof down there—what's that the roof of?"

"My laboratory," said the doctor. "Heavens! to think that while we werethere at dinner this murdering villain——"

"Quite so, sir," agreed the constable. "Well, he'd get away overthe wall into the court be'ind. 'E'll 'ave been seen there, nofear; you needn't anticipate much trouble in layin' 'ands on 'im,sir. I'll go round there in 'arf a tick. Now then, sir"—turning toBrotherton—"'ave you any idea wot this party might have looked like?"

Brotherton lifted a wild face, and the doctor interposed.

"I think you ought to know, constable," he said, "that there was—well,not a murderous attack, but what might have been one, made on thiswoman before—about eight weeks ago—by a man named Marincetti—anItalian waiter—with a knife."

"Ah!" The policeman licked his pencil eagerly. "Do you know this partyas 'as been mentioned?" he enquired of Brotherton.

"That's the man," said Brotherton, with concentrated fury. "Coming hereafter my wife—God curse him! I wish to God I had him dead here besideher!"

"Quite so," said the policeman. "Now, sir"—to the doctor—"'ave yougot the weapon wot the crime was committed with?"

"No," said Hartman, "there was no weapon in the body when I arrived."

"Did you take it out?" pursued the constable, to Brotherton.

"No," said Brotherton, "he took it with him."

"Took it with 'im," the constable entered the fact in his notes. "Phew!Wonderful 'ot it is in 'ere, ain't it, sir?" he added, mopping his brow.

"It's the gas-oven, I think," said Peter mildly. "Uncommon hot thing, agas-oven, in the middle of July. D'you mind if I turn it out? There'sthe chicken inside, but I don't suppose you want——"

Brotherton groaned, and the constable said: "Quite right, sir. A manwouldn't 'ardly fancy 'is dinner after a thing like this. Thank you,sir. Well now, doctor, wot kind of weapon do you take this to 'avebeen?"

"It was a long, narrow weapon—something like an Italian stiletto,I imagine," said the doctor, "about six inches long. It was thrustin with great force under the fifth rib, and I should say it hadpierced the heart centrally. As you see, there has been practically nobleeding. Such a wound would cause instant death. Was she lying just asshe is now when you first saw her, Mr. Brotherton?"

"On her back, just as she is," replied the husband.

"Well, that seems clear enough," said the policeman. "This 'ereMarinetti, or wotever 'is name is, 'as a grudge against the poor younglady——"

"I believe he was an admirer," put in the doctor.

"Quite so," agreed the constable. "Of course, these foreigners arelike that—even the decentest of 'em. Stabbin' and such-like seemsto come nateral to them, as you might say. Well, this 'ere Marinetticlimbs in 'ere, sees the poor young lady standin' 'ere by the table allalone, gettin' the dinner ready; 'e comes in be'ind, catches 'er roundthe waist, stabs 'er—easy job, you see; no corsets nor nothink—sheshrieks out, 'e pulls 'is stiletty out of 'er an' makes tracks. Well,now we've got to find 'im, and by your leave, sir, I'll be gettin'along. We'll 'ave 'im by the 'eels before long, sir, don't you worry.I'll 'ave to put a man in charge 'ere, sir, to keep folks out, but thatneedn't worry you. Good mornin', gentlemen."

"May we move the poor girl now?" asked the doctor.

"Certainly. Like me to 'elp you, sir?"

"No. Don't lose any time. We can manage." Dr. Hartman turned to Peteras the constable clattered downstairs. "Will you help me, Lord Peter?"

"Bunter's better at that sort of thing," said Wimsey, with a hard mouth.

The doctor looked at him in some surprise, but said nothing, and he andBunter carried the still form away. Brotherton did not follow them. Hesat in a grief-stricken heap, with his head buried in his hands. LordPeter walked about the little kitchen, turning over the various knivesand kitchen utensils, peering into the sink bucket, and apparentlytaking an inventory of the bread, butter, condiments, vegetables, andso forth which lay about in preparation for the Sunday meal. There werepotatoes in the sink, half peeled, a pathetic witness to the quietdomestic life which had been so horribly interrupted. The colander wasfilled with green peas. Lord Peter turned these things over with aninquisitive finger, gazed into the smooth surface of a bowl of drippingas though it were a divining-crystal, ran his hands several times rightthrough a bowl of flour—then drew his pipe from his pocket and filledit slowly.

The doctor returned, and put his hand on Brotherton's shoulder.

"Come," he said gently, "we have laid her in the other bedroom. Shelooks very peaceful. You must remember that, except for that moment ofterror when she saw the knife, she suffered nothing. It is terrible foryou, but you must try not to give way. The police——"

"The police can't bring her back to life," said the man savagely."She's dead. Leave me alone, curse you! Leave me alone, I say!"

He stood up, with a violent gesture.

"You must not sit here," said Hartman firmly. "I will give yousomething to take, and you must try to keep calm. Then we will leaveyou, but if you don't control yourself——"

After some further persuasion, Brotherton allowed himself to be ledaway.

"Bunter," said Lord Peter, as the kitchen door closed behind them, "doyou know why I am doubtful about the success of those rat experiments?"

"Meaning Mr. Hartman's, my lord?"

"Yes. Dr. Hartman has a theory. In any investigations, my Bunter, it ismost damnably dangerous to have a theory."

"I have heard you say so, my lord."

"Confound you—you know it as well as I do! What is wrong with thedoctor's theories, Bunter?"

"You wish me to reply, my lord, that he only sees the facts which fitin with the theory."

"Thought-reader!" exclaimed Lord Peter bitterly.

"And that he supplies them to the police, my lord."

"Hush!" said Peter, as the doctor returned.

"I have got him to lie down," said Dr. Hartman, "and I think the bestthing we can do is to leave him to himself."

"D'you know," said Wimsey, "I don't cotton to that idea, somehow."

"Why? Do you think he's likely to destroy himself?"

"That's as good a reason to give as any other, I suppose," said Wimsey,"when you haven't got any reason which can be put into words. But myadvice is, don't leave him for a moment."

"But why? Frequently, with a deep grief like this, the presence ofother people is merely an irritant. He begged me to leave him."

"Then for God's sake go back to him," said Peter.

"Really, Lord Peter," said the doctor, "I think I ought to know what isbest for my patient."

"Doctor," said Wimsey, "this is not a question of your patient. A crimehas been committed."

"But there is no mystery."

"There are twenty mysteries. For one thing, when was the window-cleanerhere last?"

"The window-cleaner?"

"Who shall fathom the ebony-black enigma of the window-cleaner?"pursued Peter lightly, putting a match to his pipe. "You are quietlyin your bath, in a state of more or less innocent nature, when anintrusive head appears at the window, like the ghost of Hamilton Tighe,and a gruff voice, suspended between earth and heaven, says 'Goodmorning, sir.' Where do window-cleaners go between visits? Do theyhibernate, like busy bees? Do they——?"

"Really, Lord Peter," said the doctor, "don't you think you're going abit beyond the limit?"

"Sorry you feel like that," said Peter, "but I really want to knowabout the window-cleaner. Look how clear these panes are."

"He came yesterday, if you want to know," said Dr. Hartman, ratherstiffly.

"You are sure?"

"He did mine at the same time."

"I thought as much," said Lord Peter. "In the words of the song:

In that case," he added, "it is absolutely imperative that Brothertonshould not be left alone for a moment. Bunter! Confound it all, where'sthat fellow got to?"

The door into the bedroom opened.

"My lord?" Mr. Bunter unobtrusively appeared, as he had unobtrusivelystolen out to keep an unobtrusive eye upon the patient.

"Good," said Wimsey. "Stay where you are." His lackadaisical manner hadgone, and he looked at the doctor as four years previously he mighthave looked at a refractory subaltern.

"Dr. Hartman," he said, "something is wrong. Cast your mind back. Wewere talking about symptoms. Then came the scream. Then came the soundof feet running. Which direction did they run in?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Don't you? Symptomatic, though, doctor. They have been troublingme all the time, subconsciously. Now I know why. They ran from thekitchen."

"Well?"

"Well! And now the window-cleaner——"

"What about him?"

"Could you swear that it wasn't the window-cleaner who made those markson the sill?"

"And the man Brotherton saw——?"

"Have we examined your laboratory roof for his footsteps?"

"But the weapon? Wimsey, this is madness! Someone took the weapon."

"I know. But did you think the edge of the wound was clean enough tohave been made by a smooth stiletto? It looked ragged to me."

"Wimsey, what are you driving at?"

"There's a clue here in the flat—and I'm damned if I can rememberit. I've seen it—I know I've seen it. It'll come to me presently.Meanwhile, don't let Brotherton——"

"What?"

"Do whatever it is he's going to do."

"But what is it?"

"If I could tell you that I could show you the clue. Why couldn't hemake up his mind whether the bedroom door was open or shut? Very goodstory, but not quite thought out. Anyhow—I say, doctor, make someexcuse, and strip him, and bring me his clothes. And send Bunter to me."

The doctor stared at him, puzzled. Then he made a gesture ofacquiescence and passed into the bedroom. Lord Peter followed him,casting a ruminating glance at Brotherton as he went. Once in thesitting-room, Lord Peter sat down on a red velvet arm-chair, fixed hiseyes on a gilt-framed oleograph, and became wrapped in contemplation.

Presently Bunter came in, with his arms full of clothing. Wimsey tookit, and began to search it, methodically enough, but listlessly.Suddenly he dropped the garments, and turned to the manservant.

"No," he said, "this is a precaution, Bunter mine, but I'm on the wrongtrack. It wasn't here I saw—whatever I did see. It was in the kitchen.Now, what was it?"

"I could not say, my lord, but I entertain a conviction that I wasalso, in a manner of speaking, conscious—not consciously conscious, mylord, if you understand me, but still conscious of an incongruity."

"Hurray!" said Wimsey suddenly. "Cheer-oh! for the sub-consciouswhat's-his-name! Now let's remember the kitchen. I cleared out ofit because I was gettin' obfuscated. Now then. Begin at the door.Fryin'-pans and saucepans on the wall. Gas-stove—oven goin'—chickeninside. Rack of wooden spoons on the wall, gas-lighter, pan-lifter.Stop me when I'm gettin' hot. Mantelpiece. Spice-boxes and stuff.Anything wrong with them? No. Dresser. Plates. Knives and forks—allclean; flour dredger—milk-jug—sieve on the wall—nutmeg-grater.Three-tier steamer. Looked inside—no grisly secrets in the steamer."

"Did you look in all the dresser drawers, my lord?"

"No. That could be done. But the point is, I did notice somethin'.What did I notice? That's the point. Never mind. On with the dance—letjoy be unconfined! Knife-board. Knife-powder. Kitchen table. Did youspeak?"

"No," said Bunter, who had moved from his attitude of wooden deference.

"Table stirs a chord. Very good. On table. Choppin'-board. Remains ofham and herb stuffin'. Packet of suet. Another sieve. Several plates.Butter in a glass dish. Bowl of drippin'——"

"Ah!"

"Drippin'——! Yes, there was——"

"Something unsatisfactory, my lord——"

"About the drippin'! Oh, my head! What's that they say in DearBrutus, Bunter? 'Hold on to the workbox.' That's right. Hold on to thedrippin'. Beastly slimy stuff to hold on to——Wait!"

There was a pause.

"When I was a kid," said Wimsey, "I used to love to go down into thekitchen and talk to old cookie. Good old soul she was, too. I can seeher now, gettin' chicken ready, with me danglin' my legs on the table.She used to pluck an' draw 'em herself. I revelled in it. Littlebeasts boys are, ain't they, Bunter? Pluck it, draw it, wash it, stuffit, tuck its little tail through its little what-you-may-call-it, trussit, grease the dish——Bunter?"

"My lord!"

"Hold on to the dripping!"

"The bowl, my lord——"

"The bowl—visualise it—what was wrong!"

"It was full, my lord!"

"Got it—got it—got it! The bowl was full—smooth surface. Golly! Iknew there was something queer about it. Now why shouldn't it be full?Hold on to the——"

"The bird was in the oven."

"Without dripping!"

"Very careless cookery, my lord."

"The bird—in the oven—no dripping, Bunter! Suppose it was never putin till after she was dead? Thrust in hurriedly by someone who hadsomething to hide—horrible!"

"But with what object, my lord?"

"Yes, why? That's the point. One more mental association with the bird.It's just coming. Wait a moment. Pluck, draw, wash, stuff, tuck up,truss——By God!"

"My lord?"

"Come on, Bunter. Thank Heaven we turned off the gas!"

He dashed through the bedroom, disregarding the doctor and the patient,who sat up with a smothered shriek. He flung open the oven door andsnatched out the baking-tin. The skin of the bird had just begun todiscolour. With a little gasp of triumph, Wimsey caught the iron ringthat protruded from the wing, and jerked out—the six-inch spiralskewer.

The doctor was struggling with the excited Brotherton in the doorway.Wimsey caught the man as he broke away, and shook him into the cornerwith a jiu-jitsu twist.

"Here is the weapon," he said.

"Prove it, blast you!" said Brotherton savagely.

"I will," said Wimsey. "Bunter, call in the policeman whom you willfind at the door. Doctor, we shall need your microscope."

In the laboratory the doctor bent over the microscope. A thin layer ofblood from the skewer had been spread upon the slide.

"Well?" said Wimsey impatiently.

"It's all right," said Hartman. "The roasting didn't get anywherenear the middle. My God, Wimsey, yes, you're right—round corpuscles,diameter 1/3621—mammalian blood—probably human——"

"Her blood," said Wimsey.

"It was very clever, Bunter," said Lord Peter, as the taxi trundledalong on the way to his flat in Piccadilly. "If that fowl had goneon roasting a bit longer the blood-corpuscles might easily have beendestroyed beyond all hope of recognition. It all goes to show that theunpremeditated crime is usually the safest."

"And what does your lordship take the man's motive to have been?"

"In my youth," said Wimsey meditatively, "they used to make me read theBible. Trouble was, the only books I ever took to naturally were theones they weren't over and above keen on. But I got to know the Song ofSongs pretty well by heart. Look it up, Bunter; at your age it won'thurt you; it talks sense about jealousy."

"I have perused the work in question, your lordship," replied Mr.Bunter, with a sallow blush. "It says, if I remember rightly:'Jealousy is cruel as the grave'."

THE BIBULOUS BUSINESS OF A MATTER OF TASTE

"Halte-là!... Attention!... F——e!"

The young man in the grey suit pushed his way through the protestingporters and leapt nimbly for the footboard of the guard's van as theParis-Evreux express steamed out of the Invalides. The guard, with aneye to a tip, fielded him adroitly from among the detaining hands.

"It is happy for monsieur that he is so agile," he remarked. "Monsieuris in a hurry?"

"Somewhat. Thank you. I can get through by the corridor?"

"But certainly. The premières are two coaches away, beyond theluggage-van."

The young man rewarded his rescuer, and made his way forward, moppinghis face. As he passed the piled-up luggage, something caught his eye,and he stopped to investigate. It was a suit-case, nearly new, ofexpensive-looking leather, labelled conspicuously:

LORD PETER WIMSEY,
Hôtel Saumon d'Or,
Verneuil-sur-Eure

and bore witness to its itinerary thus:

LONDON—PARIS
(Waterloo) (Gare St. Lazare)
via Southampton-Havre

PARIS—VERNEUIL
(Ch. de Fer de l'Ouest)

The young man whistled, and sat down on a trunk to think it out.

Somewhere there had been a leakage, and they were on his trail. Nordid they care who knew it. There were hundreds of people in London andParis who would know the name of Wimsey, not counting the police ofboth countries. In addition to belonging to one of the oldest ducalfamilies in England, Lord Peter had made himself conspicuous by hismeddling with crime detection. A label like this was a gratuitousadvertisem*nt.

But the amazing thing was that the pursuers were not troubling to hidethemselves from the pursued. That argued very great confidence. That heshould have got into the guard's van was, of course, an accident, but,even so, he might have seen it on the platform, or anywhere.

An accident? It occurred to him—not for the first time, but definitelynow, and without doubt—that it was indeed an accident for them thathe was here. The series of maddening delays that had held him upbetween London and the Invalides presented itself to him with an airof pre-arrangement. The preposterous accusation, for instance, ofthe woman who had accosted him in Piccadilly, and the slow processof extricating himself at Marlborough Street. It was easy to hold aman up on some trumped-up charge till an important plan had matured.Then there was the lavatory door at Waterloo, which had so ludicrouslylocked itself upon him. Being athletic, he had climbed over thepartition, to find the attendant mysteriously absent. And, in Paris,was it by chance that he had had a deaf taxi-driver, who mistook thedirection "Quai d'Orléans" for "Gare de Lyon," and drove a mile and ahalf in the wrong direction before the shouts of his fare attractedhis attention? They were clever, the pursuers, and circ*mspect. Theyhad accurate information; they would delay him, but without taking anyovert step; they knew that, if only they could keep time on their side,they needed no other ally.

Did they know he was on the train? If not, he still kept the advantage,for they would travel in a false security, thinking him to be left,raging and helpless, in the Invalides. He decided to make a cautiousreconnaissance.

The first step was to change his grey suit for another of inconspicuousnavy-blue cloth, which he had in his small black bag. This he did inthe privacy of the toilet, substituting for his grey soft hat a largetravelling-cap, which pulled well down over his eyes.

There was little difficulty in locating the man he was in search of.He found him seated in the inner corner of a first-class compartment,facing the engine, so that the watcher could approach unseen frombehind. On the rack was a handsome dressing-case, with the initials P.D. B. W. The young man was familiar with Wimsey's narrow, beaky face,flat yellow hair, and insolent dropped eyelids. He smiled a littlegrimly.

"He is confident," he thought, "and has regrettably made the mistake ofunderrating the enemy. Good! This is where I retire into a secondeand keep my eyes open. The next act of this melodrama will take place,I fancy, at Dreux."

It is a rule on the Chemin de Fer de l'Ouest that all Paris-Evreuxtrains, whether of Grande Vitesse or what Lord Peter Wimsey preferredto call Grande Paresse, shall halt for an interminable period at Dreux.The young man (now in navy-blue) watched his quarry safely into therefreshment-room, and slipped unobtrusively out of the station. In aquarter of an hour he was back—this time in a heavy motoring-coat,helmet, and goggles, at the wheel of a powerful hired Peugeot. Comingquietly on to the platform, he took up his station behind the wall ofthe lampisterie, whence he could keep an eye on the train and thebuffet door. After fifteen minutes his patience was rewarded by thesight of his man again boarding the express, dressing-case in hand. Theporters slammed the doors, crying: "Next stop Verneuil!" The enginepanted and groaned; the long train of grey-green carriages clankedslowly away. The motorist drew a breath of satisfaction, and, hurryingpast the barrier, started up the car. He knew that he had a good eightymiles an hour under his bonnet, and there is no speed-limit in France.

Mon Souci, the seat of that eccentric and eremitical genius theComte de Rueil, is situated three kilometres from Verneuil. It is asorrowful and decayed château, desolate at the termination of itsneglected avenue of pines. The mournful state of a nobility without anallegiance surrounds it. The stone nymphs droop greenly over theirdry and mouldering fountains. An occasional peasant creaks with asingle wagon-load of wood along the ill-forested glades. It has theatmosphere of sunset at all hours of the day. The woodwork is dry andgaping for lack of paint. Through the jalousies one sees the primsalon, with its beautiful and faded furniture. Even the last of itsill-dressed, ill-favoured women has withered away from Mon Souci, withher inbred, exaggerated features and her long white gloves. But at therear of the château a chimney smokes incessantly. It is the furnaceof the laboratory, the only living and modern thing among the old anddying; the only place tended and loved, petted and spoiled, heir tothe long solicitude which counts of a more light-hearted day had givento stable and kennel, portrait-gallery and ballroom. And below, in thecool cellar, lie row upon row the dusty bottles, each an enchantedglass coffin in which the Sleeping Beauty of the vine grows ever moreravishing in sleep.

As the Peugeot came to a standstill in the courtyard, the driverobserved with considerable surprise that he was not the count's onlyvisitor. An immense super-Renault, like a merveilleuse of theDirectoire, all bonnet and no body, had been drawn so ostentatiouslyacross the entrance as to embarrass the approach of any new-comer. Itsglittering panels were embellished with a coat of arms, and the count'selderly servant was at that moment staggering beneath the weight of twolarge and elaborate suit-cases, bearing in silver letters that could beread a mile away the legend: "Lord Peter Wimsey."

The Peugeot driver gazed with astonishment at this display, and grinnedsardonically. "Lord Peter seems rather ubiquitous in this country," heobserved to himself. Then, taking pen and paper from his bag, he busiedhimself with a little letter-writing. By the time that the suit-caseshad been carried in, and the Renault had purred its smooth way to theoutbuildings, the document was complete and enclosed in an envelopeaddressed to the Comte de Rueil. "The hoist with his own petard touch,"said the young man, and, stepping up to the door, presented theenvelope to the manservant.

"I am the bearer of a letter of introduction to monsieur le comte," hesaid. "Will you have the obligingness to present it to him? My name isBredon—Death Bredon."

The man bowed, and begged him to enter.

"If monsieur will have the goodness to seat himself in the hall for afew moments. Monsieur le comte is engaged with another gentleman, but Iwill lose no time in making monsieur's arrival known."

The young man sat down and waited. The windows of the hall looked outupon the entrance, and it was not long before the château's sleep wasdisturbed by the hooting of yet another motor-horn. A station taxi-cabcame noisily up the avenue. The man from the first-class carriage andthe luggage labelled P. D. B. W. were deposited upon the doorstep.Lord Peter Wimsey dismissed the driver and rang the bell.

"Now," said Mr. Bredon, "the fun is going to begin." He effaced himselfas far as possible in the shadow of a tall armoire normande.

"Good evening," said the new-comer to the manservant, in admirableFrench, "I am Lord Peter Wimsey. I arrive upon the invitation ofMonsieur le comte de Rueil. Monsieur le comte is at liberty?"

"Milord Peter Wimsey? Pardon, monsieur, but I do not understand. Milordde Wimsey is already arrived and is with monsieur le comte at thismoment."

"You surprise me," said the other, with complete imperturbability, "forcertainly no one but myself has any right to that name. It seems asthough some person more ingenious than honest has had the bright ideaof impersonating me."

The servant was clearly at a loss.

"Perhaps," he suggested, "monsieur can show his papiers d'identité."

"Although it is somewhat unusual to produce one's credentials on thedoorstep when paying a private visit," replied his lordship, withunaltered good humour, "I have not the slightest objection. Here is mypassport, here is a permis de séjour granted to me in Paris, here myvisiting-card, and here a quantity of correspondence addressed to meat the Hôtel Meurice, Paris, at my flat in Piccadilly, London, at theMarlborough Club, London, and at my brother's house at King's Denver.Is that sufficiently in order?"

The servant perused the documents carefully, appearing particularlyimpressed by the permis de séjour.

"It appears there is some mistake," he murmured dubiously; "if monsieurwill follow me, I will acquaint monsieur le comte."

They disappeared through the folding doors at the back of the hall, andBredon was left alone.

"Quite a little boom in Richmonds to-day," he observed, "each of usmore unscrupulous than the last. The occasion obviously calls for arefined subtlety of method."

After what he judged to be a hectic ten minutes in the count's library,the servant reappeared, searching for him.

"Monsieur le comte's compliments, and would monsieur step this way?"

Bredon entered the room with a jaunty step. He had created forhimself the mastery of this situation. The count, a thin, elderlyman, his fingers deeply stained with chemicals, sat, with a perturbedexpression, at his desk. In two arm-chairs sat the two Wimseys. Bredonnoted that, while the Wimsey he had seen in the train (whom he mentallynamed Peter I) retained his unruffled smile, Peter II (he of theRenault) had the flushed and indignant air of an Englishman affronted.The two men were superficially alike—both fair, lean, and long-nosed,with the nondescript, inelastic face which predominates in any assemblyof well bred Anglo-Saxons.

"Mr. Bredon," said the count, "I am charmed to have the pleasure ofmaking your acquaintance, and regret that I must at once call upon youfor a service as singular as it is important. You have presented to mea letter of introduction from your cousin, Lord Peter Wimsey. Will younow be good enough to inform me which of these gentlemen he is?"

Bredon let his glance pass slowly from the one claimant to the other,meditating what answer would best serve his own ends. One, at any rate,of the men in this room was a formidable intellect, trained in thedetection of imposture.

"Well?" said Peter II. "Are you going to acknowledge me, Bredon?"

Peter I extracted a cigarette from a silver case. "Your confederatedoes not seem very well up in his part," he remarked, with a quietsmile at Peter II.

"Monsieur le comte," said Bredon, "I regret extremely that I cannotassist you in the matter. My acquaintance with my cousin, like yourown, has been made and maintained entirely through correspondence ona subject of common interest. My profession," he added, "has made meunpopular with my family."

There was a very slight sigh of relief somewhere. The falseWimsey—whichever he was—had gained a respite. Bredon smiled.

"An excellent move, Mr. Bredon," said Peter I, "but it will hardlyexplain——Allow me." He took the letter from the count's hesitatinghand. "It will hardly explain the fact that the ink of this letter ofrecommendation, dated three weeks ago, is even now scarcely dry—thoughI congratulate you on the very plausible imitation of my handwriting."

"If you can forge my handwriting," said Peter II, "so can this Mr.Bredon." He read the letter aloud over his double's shoulder.

"'Monsieur le comte—I have the honour to present to you my friendand cousin, Mr. Death Bredon, who, I understand, is to be travellingin your part of France next month. He is very anxious to view yourinteresting library. Although a journalist by profession, he reallyknows something about books.' I am delighted to learn for the firsttime that I have such a cousin. An interviewer's trick, I fancy,monsieur le comte. Fleet Street appears well informed about our familynames. Possibly it is equally well informed about the object of myvisit to Mon Souci?"

"If," said Bredon boldly, "you refer to the acquisition of the de Rueilformula for poison gas for the British Government, I can answer formy own knowledge, though possibly the rest of Fleet Street is lesscompletely enlightened." He weighed his words carefully now, warned byhis slip. The sharp eyes and detective ability of Peter I alarmed himfar more than the caustic tongue of Peter II.

The count uttered an exclamation of dismay.

"Gentlemen," he said, "one thing is obvious—that there has beensomewhere a disastrous leakage of information. Which of you is the LordPeter Wimsey to whom I should entrust the formula I do not know. Bothof you are supplied with papers of identity; both appear completelyinstructed in this matter; both of your handwritings correspond withthe letters I have previously received from Lord Peter, and both ofyou have offered me the sum agreed upon in Bank of England notes. Inaddition, this third gentleman arrives endowed with an equal facilityin handwritings, an introductory letter surrounded by most suspiciouscirc*mstances, and a degree of acquaintance with this whole matterwhich alarms me. I can see but one solution. All of you must remainhere at the château while I send to England for some elucidation ofthis mystery. To the genuine Lord Peter I offer my apologies, andassure him that I will endeavour to make his stay as agreeable aspossible. Will this satisfy you? It will? I am delighted to hear it.My servants will show you to your bedrooms, and dinner will be athalf-past seven."

"It is delightful to think," said Mr. Bredon, as he fingered his glassand passed it before his nostrils with the air of a connoisseur, "thatwhichever of these gentlemen has the right to the name which he assumesis assured to-night of a truly Olympian satisfaction." His impudencehad returned to him, and he challenged the company with an air. "Yourcellars, monsieur le comte, are as well known among men endowed witha palate as your talents among men of science. No eloquence could saymore."

The two Lord Peters murmured assent.

"I am the more pleased by your commendation," said the count, "that itsuggests to me a little test which, with your kind co-operation, will,I think, assist us very much in determining which of you gentlemenis Lord Peter Wimsey and which his talented impersonator. Is it notmatter of common notoriety that Lord Peter has a palate for wine almostunequalled in Europe?"

"You flatter me, monsieur le comte," said Peter II modestly.

"I wouldn't like to say unequalled," said Peter I, chiming in like awell-trained duet; "let's call it fair to middling. Less liable tomisconstruction and all that."

"Your lordship does yourself an injustice," said Bredon, addressingboth men with impartial deference. "The bet which you won from Mr.Frederick Arbuthnot at the Egotists' Club, when he challenged you toname the vintage years of seventeen wines blindfold, received its dueprominence in the Evening Wire."

"I was in extra form that night," said Peter I.

"A fluke," laughed Peter II.

"The test I propose, gentlemen, is on similar lines," pursued thecount, "though somewhat less strenuous. There are six courses orderedfor dinner to-night. With each we will drink a different wine, whichmy butler shall bring in with the label concealed. You shall each inturn give me your opinion upon the vintage. By this means we shallperhaps arrive at something, since the most brilliant forger—of whom Igather I have at least two at my table to-night—can scarcely forge apalate for wine. If too hazardous a mixture of wines should produce atemporary incommodity in the morning, you will, I feel sure, suffer itgladly for this once in the cause of truth."

The two Wimseys bowed.

"In vino veritas," said Mr. Bredon, with a laugh. He at least waswell seasoned, and foresaw opportunities for himself.

"Accident, and my butler, having placed you at my right hand,monsieur," went on the count, addressing Peter I, "I will ask you tobegin by pronouncing, as accurately as may be, upon the wine which youhave just drunk."

"That is scarcely a searching ordeal," said the other, with a smile. "Ican say definitely that it is a very pleasant and well-matured ChablisMoutonne; and, since ten years is an excellent age for a Chablis—areal Chablis—I should vote for 1916, which was perhaps the best of thewar vintages in that district."

"Have you anything to add to that opinion, monsieur?" enquired thecount, deferentially, of Peter II.

"I wouldn't like to be dogmatic to a year or so," said that gentlemancritically, "but if I must commit myself, don't you know, I should say1915—decidedly 1915."

The count bowed, and turned to Bredon.

"Perhaps you, too, monsieur, would be interested to give an opinion,"he suggested, with the exquisite courtesy always shown to the plain manin the society of experts.

"I'd rather not set a standard which I might not be able to live upto," replied Bredon, a little maliciously. "I know that it is 1915, forI happened to see the label."

Peter II looked a little disconcerted.

"We will arrange matters better in future," said the count. "Pardonme." He stepped apart for a few moments' conference with the butler,who presently advanced to remove the oysters and bring in the soup.

The next candidate for attention arrived swathed to the lip in damask.

"It is your turn to speak first, monsieur," said the count to Peter II."Permit me to offer you an olive to cleanse the palate. No haste, Ibeg. Even for the most excellent political ends, good wine must not beused with disrespect."

The rebuke was not unnecessary, for, after a preliminary sip, Peter IIhad taken a deep draught of the heady white richness. Under Peter I'squizzical eye he wilted quite visibly.

"It is—it is Sauterne," he began, and stopped. Then, gatheringencouragement from Bredon's smile, he said, with more aplomb, "ChâteauYquem, 1911—ah! the queen of white wines, sir, as what's-his-namesays." He drained his glass defiantly.

The count's face was a study as he slowly detached his fascinated gazefrom Peter II to fix it on Peter I.

"If I had to be impersonated by somebody," murmured the latter gently,"it would have been more flattering to have had it undertaken by aperson to whom all white wines were not alike. Well, now, sir, thisadmirable vintage is, of course, a Montrachet of—let me see"—herolled the wine delicately upon his tongue—"of 1911. And a veryattractive wine it is, though, with all due deference to yourself,monsieur le comte, I feel that it is perhaps slightly too sweet tooccupy its present place in the menu. True, with this excellentconsommé marmite, a sweetish wine is not altogether out of place,but, in my own humble opinion, it would have shown to better advantagewith the confitures."

"There, now," said Bredon innocently, "it just shows how one may bemisled. Had not I had the advantage of Lord Peter's expert opinion—forcertainly nobody who could mistake Montrachet for Sauterne has anyclaim to the name of Wimsey—I should have pronounced this to be,not the Montrachet-Aîné, but the Chevalier-Montrachet of the sameyear, which is a trifle sweeter. But no doubt, as your lordship says,drinking it with the soup has caused it to appear sweeter to me than itactually is."

The count looked sharply at him, but made no comment.

"Have another olive," said Peter I kindly. "You can't judge wine ifyour mind is on other flavours."

"Thanks frightfully," said Bredon. "And that reminds me——" Helaunched into a rather pointless story about olives, which lasted outthe soup and bridged the interval to the entrance of an exquisitelycooked sole.

The count's eye followed the pale amber wine rather thoughtfully asit trilled into the glasses. Bredon raised his in the approved mannerto his nostrils, and his face flushed a little. With the first sip heturned excitedly to his host.

"Good God, sir——" he began.

The lifted hand cautioned him to silence.

Peter I sipped, inhaled, sipped again, and his brows clouded. PeterII had by this time apparently abandoned his pretensions. He drankthirstily, with a beaming smile and a lessening hold upon reality.

"Eh bien, monsieur?" enquired the count gently.

"This," said Peter I, "is certainly hock, and the noblest hock I haveever tasted, but I must admit that for the moment I cannot preciselyplace it."

"No?" said Bredon. His voice was like bean-honey now, sweet and harshtogether. "Nor the other gentleman? And yet I fancy I could place itwithin a couple of miles, though it is a wine I had hardly looked tofind in a French cellar at this time. It is hock, as your lordshipsays, and at that it is Johannisberger. Not the plebeian cousin, butthe echter Schloss Johannisberger from the castle vineyard itself.Your lordship must have missed it (to your great loss) during the waryears. My father laid some down the year before he died, but it appearsthat the ducal cellars at Denver were less well furnished."

"I must set about remedying the omission," said the remaining Peter,with determination.

The poulet was served to the accompaniment of an argument over theLafitte, his lordship placing it at 1878, Bredon maintaining it to be arelic of the glorious 'seventy-fives, slightly over-matured, but bothagreeing as to its great age and noble pedigree.

As to the Clos-Vougeôt, on the other hand, there was completeagreement; after a tentative suggestion of 1915, it was pronouncedfinally by Peter I to belong to the equally admirable though slightlylighter 1911 crop. The pré-salé was removed amid general applause,and the dessert was brought in.

"Is it necessary," asked Peter I, with a slight smile in the directionof Peter II—now happily murmuring, "Damn good wine, damn good dinner,damn good show"—"is it necessary to prolong this farce any further?"

"Your lordship will not, surely, refuse to proceed with thediscussion?" cried the count.

"The point is sufficiently made, I fancy."

"But no one will surely ever refuse to discuss wine," said Bredon,"least of all your lordship, who is so great an authority."

"Not on this," said the other. "Frankly, it is a wine I do not careabout. It is sweet and coarse, qualities that would damn any wine inthe eyes—the mouth, rather—of a connoisseur. Did your excellentfather have this laid down also, Mr. Bredon?"

Bredon shook his head.

"No," he said, "no. Genuine Imperial Tokay is beyond the opportunitiesof Grub Street, I fear. Though I agree with you that it is horriblyoverrated—with all due deference to yourself, monsieur le comte."

"In that case," said the count, "we will pass at once to the liqueur.I admit that I had thought of puzzling these gentlemen with the localproduct, but, since one competitor seems to have scratched, it shall bebrandy—the only fitting close to a good wine-list."

In a slightly embarrassing silence the huge, round-bellied balloonglasses were set upon the table, and the few precious drops pouredgently into each and set lightly swinging to release the bouquet.

"This," said Peter I, charmed again into amiability, "is, indeed, awonderful old French brandy. Half a century old, I suppose."

"Your lordship's praise lacks warmth," replied Bredon. "This is thebrandy—the brandy of brandies—the superb—the incomparable—the trueNapoleon. It should be honoured like the emperor it is."

He rose to his feet, his napkin in his hand.

"Sir," said the count, turning to him, "I have on my right a mostadmirable judge of wine, but you are unique." He motioned to Pierre,who solemnly brought forward the empty bottles, unswathed now, from thehumble Chablis to the stately Napoleon, with the imperial seal blownin the glass. "Every time you have been correct as to growth and year.There cannot be six men in the world with such a palate as yours, and Ithought that but one of them was an Englishman. Will you not favour us,this time, with your real name?"

"It doesn't matter what his name is," said Peter I. He rose. "Put upyour hands, all of you. Count, the formula!"

Bredon's hands came up with a jerk, still clutching the napkin. Thewhite folds spurted flame as his shot struck the other's revolvercleanly between trigger and barrel, exploding the charge, to theextreme detriment of the glass chandelier. Peter I stood shaking hisparalysed hand and cursing.

Bredon kept him covered while he co*cked a wary eye at Peter II, who,his rosy visions scattered by the report, seemed struggling back toaggressiveness.

"Since the entertainment appears to be taking a lively turn," observedBredon, "perhaps you would be so good, count, as to search thesegentlemen for further firearms. Thank you. Now, why should we not allsit down again and pass the bottle round?"

"You—you are——" growled Peter I.

"Oh, my name is Bredon all right," said the young man cheerfully. "Iloathe aliases. Like another fellow's clothes, you know—never seemquite to fit. Peter Death Bredon Wimsey—a bit lengthy and all that,but handy when taken in instalments. I've got a passport and all thosethings, too, but I didn't offer them, as their reputation here seemsa little blown upon, so to speak. As regards the formula, I thinkI'd better give you my personal cheque for it—all sorts of peopleseem able to go about flourishing Bank of England notes. Personally,I think all this secret diplomacy work is a mistake, but that's theWar Office's pigeon. I suppose we all brought similar credentials.Yes, I thought so. Some bright person seems to have sold himself verysuccessfully in two places at once. But you two must have been having alively time, each thinking the other was me."

"My lord," said the count heavily, "these two men are, or were,Englishmen, I suppose. I do not care to know what Governments havepurchased their treachery. But where they stand, I, alas! stand too.To our venal and corrupt Republic I, as a Royalist, acknowledge noallegiance. But it is in my heart that I have agreed to sell my countryto England because of my poverty. Go back to your War Office andsay I will not give you the formula. If war should come between ourcountries—which may God avert!—I will be found on the side of France.That, my lord, is my last word."

Wimsey bowed.

"Sir," said he, "it appears that my mission has, after all, failed.I am glad of it. This trafficking in destruction is a dirty kind ofbusiness after all. Let us shut the door upon these two, who areneither flesh nor fowl, and finish the brandy in the library."

THE LEARNED ADVENTURE OF THE DRAGON'S HEAD

"Uncle Peter!"

"Half a jiff, Gherkins. No, I don't think I'll take the Catullus, Mr.Ffolliott. After all, thirteen guineas is a bit steep without eitherthe title or the last folio, what? But you might send me round theVitruvius and the Satyricon when they come in; I'd like to have a lookat them, anyhow. Well, old man, what is it?"

"Do come and look at these pictures, Uncle Peter. I'm sure it's anawfully old book."

Lord Peter Wimsey sighed as he picked his way out of Mr. Ffolliott'sdark back shop, strewn with the flotsam and jetsam of many libraries.An unexpected outbreak of measles at Mr. Bultridge's excellentpreparatory school, coinciding with the absence of the Duke andduch*ess of Denver on the Continent, had saddled his lordship with histen-year-old nephew, Viscount St. George, more commonly known as YoungJerry, Jerrykins, or Pickled Gherkins. Lord Peter was not one of thoseborn uncles who delight old nurses by their fascinating "way with"children. He succeeded, however, in earning tolerance on honourableterms by treating the young with the same scrupulous politeness whichhe extended to their elders. He therefore prepared to receive Gherkins'sdiscovery with respect, though a child's taste was not to be trusted,and the book might quite well be some horror of woolly mezzotints oran inferior modern reprint adorned with leprous electros. Nothing muchbetter was really to be expected from the "cheap shelf" exposed to thedust of the street.

"Uncle! there's such a funny man here, with a great long nose andears and a tail and dogs' heads all over his body. Monstrum hocCracoviæ—that's a monster, isn't it? I should jolly well think itwas. What's Cracoviæ, Uncle Peter?"

"Oh," said Lord Peter, greatly relieved, "the Cracow monster?" Aportrait of that distressing infant certainly argued a respectableantiquity. "Let's have a look. Quite right, it's a very oldbook—Munster's Cosmographia Universalis. I'm glad you know goodstuff when you see it, Gherkins. What's the Cosmographia doing outhere, Mr. Ffolliott, at five bob?"

"Well, my lord," said the bookseller, who had followed his customers tothe door, "it's in a very bad state, you see; covers loose and nearlyall the double-page maps missing. It came in a few weeks ago—dumped inwith a collection we bought from a gentleman in Norfolk—you'll findhis name in it—Dr. Conyers of Yelsall Manor. Of course, we might keepit and try to make up a complete copy when we get another example. Butit's rather out of our line, as you know, classical authors being ourspeciality. So we just put it out to go for what it would fetch in thestatus quo, as you might say."

"Oh, look!" broke in Gherkins. "Here's a picture of a man being choppedup in little bits. What does it say about it?"

"I thought you could read Latin."

"Well, but it's all full of sort of pothooks. What do they mean?"

"They're just contractions," said Lord Peter patiently. "'Solentquoque hujus insulæ cultores'—It is the custom of the dwellers inthis island, when they see their parents stricken in years and of nofurther use, to take them down into the market-place and sell them tothe cannibals, who kill them and eat them for food. This they do alsowith younger persons when they fall into any desperate sickness."

"Ha, ha!" said Mr. Ffolliott. "Rather sharp practice on the poorcannibals. They never got anything but tough old joints or diseasedmeat, eh?"

"The inhabitants seem to have had thoroughly advanced notions ofbusiness," agreed his lordship.

The viscount was enthralled.

"I do like this book," he said; "could I buy it out of mypocket-money, please?"

"Another problem for uncles," thought Lord Peter, rapidly ransackinghis recollections of the Cosmographia to determine whether any ofits illustrations were indelicate; for he knew the duch*ess to bestrait-laced. On consideration, he could only remember one that wasdubious, and there was a sporting chance that the duch*ess might fail tolight upon it.

"Well," he said judicially, "in your place, Gherkins, I shouldbe inclined to buy it. It's in a bad state, as Mr. Ffolliott hashonourably told you—otherwise, of course, it would be exceedinglyvaluable; but, apart from the lost pages, it's a very nice clean copy,and certainly worth five shillings to you, if you think of starting acollection."

Till that moment, the viscount had obviously been more impressed by thecannibals than by the state of the margins, but the idea of figuringnext term at Mr. Bultridge's as a collector of rare editions hadundeniable charm.

"None of the other fellows collect books," he said; "they collectstamps, mostly. I think stamps are rather ordinary, don't you, UnclePeter? I was rather thinking of giving up stamps. Mr. Porter, who takesus for history, has got a lot of books like yours, and he is a splendidman at footer."

Rightly interpreting this reference to Mr. Porter, Lord Peter gave itas his opinion that book-collecting could be a perfectly manly pursuit.Girls, he said, practically never took it up, because it meant so muchlearning about dates and type-faces and other technicalities whichcalled for a masculine brain.

"Besides," he added, "it's a very interesting book in itself, you know.Well worth dipping into."

"I'll take it, please," said the viscount, blushing a little attransacting so important and expensive a piece of business; for theduch*ess did not encourage lavish spending by little boys, and wasstrict in the matter of allowances.

Mr. Ffolliott bowed, and took the Cosmographia away to wrap it up.

"Are you all right for cash?" enquired Lord Peter discreetly. "Or can Ibe of temporary assistance?"

"No, thank you, uncle; I've got Aunt Mary's half-crown and fourshillings of my pocket-money, because, you see, with the measleshappening, we didn't have our dormitory spread, and I was saving up forthat."

The business being settled in this gentlemanly manner, and the buddingbibliophile taking personal and immediate charge of the stout, squarevolume, a taxi was chartered which, in due course of traffic delays,brought the Cosmographia to 110A Piccadilly.

"And who, Bunter, is Mr. Wilberforce Pope?"

"I do not think we know the gentleman, my lord. He is asking to seeyour lordship for a few minutes on business."

"He probably wants me to find a lost dog for his maiden aunt. What itis to have acquired a reputation as a sleuth! Show him in. Gherkins, ifthis good gentleman's business turns out to be private, you'd betterretire into the dining-room."

"Yes, Uncle Peter," said the viscount dutifully. He was extended onhis stomach on the library hearthrug, laboriously picking his waythrough the more exciting-looking bits of the Cosmographia, withthe aid of Messrs. Lewis & Short, whose monumental compilation he hadhitherto looked upon as a barbarous invention for the annoyance ofupper forms.

Mr. Wilberforce Pope turned out to be a rather plump, fair gentlemanin the late thirties, with a prematurely bald forehead, horn-rimmedspectacles, and an engaging manner.

"You will excuse my intrusion, won't you?" he began. "I'm sure you mustthink me a terrible nuisance. But I wormed your name and address out ofMr. Ffolliott. Not his fault, really. You won't blame him, will you? Ipositively badgered the poor man. Sat down on his doorstep and refusedto go, though the boy was putting up the shutters. I'm afraid you willthink me very silly when you know what it's all about. But you reallymustn't hold poor Mr. Ffolliott responsible, now, will you?"

"Not at all," said his lordship. "I mean, I'm charmed and all that sortof thing. Something I can do for you about books? You're a collector,perhaps? Will you have a drink or anything?"

"Well, no," said Mr. Pope, with a faint giggle. "No, not exactly acollector. Thank you very much, just a spot—no, no, literally a spot.Thank you; no"—he glanced round the bookshelves, with their rows ofrich old leather bindings—"certainly not a collector. But I happento be er, interested—sentimentally interested—in a purchase youmade yesterday. Really, such a very small matter. You will think itfoolish. But I am told you are the present owner of a copy of Munster'sCosmographia, which used to belong to my uncle, Dr. Conyers."

Gherkins looked up suddenly, seeing that the conversation had apersonal interest for him.

"Well, that's not quite correct," said Wimsey. "I was there at thetime, but the actual purchaser is my nephew. Gerald, Mr. Pope isinterested in your Cosmographia. My nephew, Lord St. George."

"How do you do, young man," said Mr. Pope affably. "I see that thecollecting spirit runs in the family. A great Latin scholar, too, Iexpect, eh? Ready to decline jusjurandum with the best of us? Ha, ha!And what are you going to do when you grow up? Be Lord Chancellor, eh?Now, I bet you think you'd rather be an engine-driver, what, what?"

"No, thank you," said the viscount, with aloofness.

"What, not an engine-driver? Well, now, I want you to be a realbusiness man this time. Put through a book deal, you know. Your unclewill see I offer you a fair price, what? Ha, ha! Now, you see, thatpicture-book of yours has a great value for me that it wouldn't havefor anybody else. When I was a little boy of your age it was oneof my very greatest joys. I used to have it to look at on Sundays.Ah, dear! the happy hours I used to spend with those quaint oldengravings, and the funny old maps with the ships and salamanders and'Hic dracones'—you know what that means, I dare say. What does itmean?"

"Here are dragons," said the viscount, unwillingly but still politely.

"Quite right. I knew you were a scholar."

"It's a very attractive book," said Lord Peter. "My nephew was quiteentranced by the famous Cracow monster."

"Ah yes—a glorious monster, isn't it?" agreed Mr. Pope, withenthusiasm. "Many's the time I've fancied myself as Sir Lancelot orsomebody on a white war horse, charging that monster, lance in rest,with the captive princess cheering me on. Ah! childhood! You're livingthe happiest days of your life, young man. You won't believe me, butyou are."

"Now what is it exactly you want my nephew to do?" enquired Lord Petera little sharply.

"Quite right, quite right. Well now, you know, my uncle, Dr. Conyers,sold his library a few months ago. I was abroad at the time, and itwas only yesterday, when I went down to Yelsall on a visit, that Ilearnt the dear old book had gone with the rest. I can't tell you howdistressed I was. I know it's not valuable—a great many pages missingand all that—but I can't bear to think of its being gone. So, purelyfrom sentimental reasons, as I said, I hurried off to Ffolliott's tosee if I could get it back. I was quite upset to find I was too late,and gave poor Mr. Ffolliott no peace till he told me the name of thepurchaser. Now, you see, Lord St. George, I'm here to make you an offerfor the book. Come, now, double what you gave for it. That's a goodoffer, isn't it, Lord Peter? Ha, ha! And you will be doing me a verygreat kindness as well."

Viscount St. George looked rather distressed, and turned appealingly tohis uncle.

"Well, Gerald," said Lord Peter, "it's your affair, you know. What doyou say?"

The viscount stood first on one leg and then on the other. The careerof a book-collector evidently had its problems, like other careers.

"If you please, Uncle Peter," he said, with embarrassment, "may Iwhisper?"

"It's not usually considered the thing to whisper, Gherkins, but youcould ask Mr. Pope for time to consider his offer. Or you could say youwould prefer to consult me first. That would be quite in order."

"Then, if you don't mind, Mr. Pope, I should like to consult my unclefirst."

"Certainly, certainly; ha, ha!" said Mr. Pope. "Very prudent to consulta collector of greater experience, what? Ah! the younger generation,eh, Lord Peter? Regular little business men already."

"Excuse us, then, for one moment," said Lord Peter, and drew his nephewinto the dining-room.

"I say, Uncle Peter," said the collector breathlessly, when the doorwas shut, "need I give him my book? I don't think he's a very niceman. I hate people who ask you to decline nouns for them."

"Certainly you needn't, Gherkins, if you don't want to. The book isyours, and you've a right to it."

"What would you do, uncle?"

Before replying, Lord Peter, in the most surprising manner, tiptoedgently to the door which communicated with the library and flung itsuddenly open, in time to catch Mr. Pope kneeling on the hearthrugintently turning over the pages of the coveted volume, which lay as theowner had left it. He started to his feet in a flurried manner as thedoor opened.

"Do help yourself, Mr. Pope, won't you?" cried Lord Peter hospitably,and closed the door again.

"What is it, Uncle Peter?"

"If you want my advice, Gherkins, I should be rather careful howyou had any dealings with Mr. Pope. I don't think he's telling thetruth. He called those wood-cuts engravings—though, of course, thatmay be just his ignorance. But I can't believe that he spent all hischildhood's Sunday afternoons studying those maps and picking outthe dragons in them, because, as you may have noticed for yourself,old Munster put very few dragons into his maps. They're mostly justplain maps—a bit queer to our ideas of geography, but perfectlystraight-forward. That was why I brought in the Cracow monster, and,you see, he thought it was some sort of dragon."

"Oh, I say, uncle! So you said that on purpose!"

"If Mr. Pope wants the Cosmographia, it's for some reason he doesn'twant to tell us about. And, that being so, I wouldn't be in too big ahurry to sell, if the book were mine. See?"

"Do you mean there's something frightfully valuable about the book,which we don't know?"

"Possibly."

"How exciting! It's just like a story in the Boys' Friend Library.What am I to say to him, uncle?"

"Well, in your place I wouldn't be dramatic or anything. I'd just sayyou've considered the matter, and you've taken a fancy to the book andhave decided not to sell. You thank him for his offer, of course."

"Yes—er, won't you say it for me, uncle?"

"I think it would look better if you did it yourself."

"Yes, perhaps it would. Will he be very cross?"

"Possibly," said Lord Peter, "but, if he is, he won't let on. Ready?"

The consulting committee accordingly returned to the library. Mr. Popehad prudently retired from the hearthrug and was examining a distantbookcase.

"Thank you very much for your offer, Mr. Pope," said the viscount,striding stoutly up to him, "but I have considered it, and I have takena—a—a fancy for the book and decided not to sell."

"Sorry and all that," put in Lord Peter, "but my nephew's adamant aboutit. No, it isn't the price; he wants the book. Wish I could oblige you,but it isn't in my hands. Won't you take something else before yougo? Really? Ring the bell, Gherkins. My man will see you to the lift.Good evening."

When the visitor had gone, Lord Peter returned and thoughtfully pickedup the book.

"We were awful idiots to leave him with it, Gherkins, even for amoment. Luckily, there's no harm done."

"You don't think he found out anything while we were away, do you,uncle?" gasped Gherkins, open-eyed.

"I'm sure he didn't."

"Why?"

"He offered me fifty pounds for it on the way to the door. Gave thegame away. H'm! Bunter."

"My lord?"

"Put this book in the safe and bring me back the keys. And you'd betterset all the burglar alarms when you lock up."

"Oo—er!" said Viscount St. George.

On the third morning after the visit of Mr. Wilberforce Pope, theviscount was seated at a very late breakfast in his uncle's flat, afterthe most glorious and soul-satisfying night that ever boy experienced.He was almost too excited to eat the kidneys and bacon placed beforehim by Bunter, whose usual impeccable manner was not in the leastimpaired by a rapidly swelling and blackening eye.

It was about two in the morning that Gherkins—who had not slept verywell, owing to too lavish and grown-up a dinner and theatre the eveningbefore—became aware of a stealthy sound somewhere in the directionof the fire-escape. He had got out of bed and crept very softly intoLord Peter's room and woken him up. He had said: "Uncle Peter, I'msure there's burglars on the fire-escape." And Uncle Peter, instead ofsaying, "Nonsense, Gherkins, hurry up and get back to bed," had sat upand listened and said: "By Jove, Gherkins, I believe you're right." Andhad sent Gherkins to call Bunter. And on his return, Gherkins, who hadalways regarded his uncle as a very top-hatted sort of person, actuallysaw him take from his handkerchief-drawer an undeniable automaticpistol.

It was at this point that Lord Peter was apotheosed from the state ofQuite Decent Uncle to that of Glorified Uncle. He said:

"Look here, Gherkins, we don't know how many of these blightersthere'll be, so you must be jolly smart and do anything I say sharp, onthe word of command—even if I have to say 'Scoot.' Promise?"

Gherkins promised, with his heart thumping, and they sat waiting in thedark, till suddenly a little electric bell rang sharply just over thehead of Lord Peter's bed and a green light shone out.

"The library window," said his lordship, promptly silencing the bell byturning a switch. "If they heard, they may think better of it. We'llgive them a few minutes."

They gave them five minutes, and then crept very quietly down thepassage.

"Go round by the dining-room, Bunter," said his lordship; "they maybolt that way."

With infinite precaution, he unlocked and opened the library door, andGherkins noticed how silently the locks moved.

A circle of light from an electric torch was moving slowly alongthe bookshelves. The burglars had obviously heard nothing of thecounter-attack. Indeed, they seemed to have troubles enough of theirown to keep their attention occupied. As his eyes grew accustomed tothe dim light, Gherkins made out that one man was standing holdingthe torch, while the other took down and examined the books. It wasfascinating to watch his apparently disembodied hands move along theshelves in the torch-light.

The men muttered discontentedly. Obviously the job was proving aharder one than they had bargained for. The habit of ancient authorsof abbreviating the titles on the backs of their volumes, or leavingthem completely untitled, made things extremely awkward. From time totime the man with the torch extended his hand into the light. It held apiece of paper, which they anxiously compared with the title-page of abook. Then the volume was replaced and the tedious search went on.

Suddenly some slight noise—Gherkins was sure he did not make it; itmay have been Bunter in the dining-room—seemed to catch the ear of thekneeling man.

"Wot's that?" he gasped, and his startled face swung round into view.

"Hands up!" said Lord Peter, and switched the light on.

The second man made one leap for the dining-room door, where a smashand an oath proclaimed that he had encountered Bunter. The kneeling manshot his hands up like a marionette.

"Gherkins," said Lord Peter, "do you think you can go across to thatgentleman by the bookcase and relieve him of the article which isso inelegantly distending the right-hand pocket of his coat? Wait aminute. Don't on any account get between him and my pistol, and mindyou take the thing out very carefully. There's no hurry. That'ssplendid. Just point it at the floor while you bring it across, wouldyou? Thanks. Bunter has managed for himself, I see. Now run into mybedroom, and in the bottom of my wardrobe you will find a bundle ofstout cord. Oh! I beg your pardon; yes, put your hands down by allmeans. It must be very tiring exercise."

The arms of the intruders being secured behind their backs with aneatness which Gherkins felt to be worthy of the best traditionsof Sexton Blake, Lord Peter motioned his captives to sit down anddespatched Bunter for whisky-and-soda.

"Before we send for the police," said Lord Peter, "you would do me agreat personal favour by telling me what you were looking for, andwho sent you. Ah! thanks, Bunter. As our guests are not at liberty touse their hands, perhaps you would be kind enough to assist them to adrink. Now then, say when."

"Well, you're a gentleman, guv'nor," said the First Burglar, wipinghis mouth politely on his shoulder, the back of his hand not beingavailable. "If we'd a known wot a job this wos goin' ter be, blow meif we'd a touched it. The bloke said, ses 'e, 'It's takin' candy froma baby,' 'e ses. 'The gentleman's a reg'lar softie,' 'e ses, 'one o'these 'ere sersiety toffs wiv a maggot fer old books,' that's wot 'eses, 'an' ef yer can find this 'ere old book fer me,' 'e ses, 'there'sa pony fer yer.' Well! Sech a job! 'E didn't mention as 'ow there'd befive 'undred fousand bleedin' ole books all as alike as a regiment o'bleedin' dragoons. Nor as 'ow yer kept a nice little machine-gun likethat 'andy by the bedside, nor yet as 'ow yer was so bleedin' good attyin' knots in a bit o' string. No—'e didn't think ter mention themthings."

"Deuced unsporting of him," said his lordship. "Do you happen to knowthe gentleman's name?"

"No—that was another o' them things wot 'e didn't mention. 'E's astout, fair party, wiv 'orn rims to 'is goggles and a bald 'ead. One o'these 'ere philanthropists, I reckon. A friend o' mine, wot got intertrouble onct, got work froo 'im, and the gentleman comes round and sesto 'im, 'e ses, 'Could yer find me a couple o' lads ter do a littlejob?' 'e ses, an' my friend, finkin' no 'arm, you see, guv'nor, but wotit might be a bit of a joke like, 'e gets 'old of my pal an' me, an'we meets the gentleman in a pub dahn Whitechapel way. W'ich we was termeet 'im there again Friday night, us 'avin' allowed that time fer tergit 'old of the book."

"The book being, if I may hazard a guess, the CosmographiaUniversalis?"

"Sumfink like that, guv'nor. I got its jaw-breakin' name wrote down ona bit o' paper, wot my pal 'ad in 'is 'and. Wot did yer do wiv that'ere bit o' paper, Bill?"

"Well, look here," said Lord Peter, "I'm afraid I must send for thepolice, but I think it likely, if you give us your assistance to gethold of your gentleman, whose name I strongly suspect to be WilberforcePope, that you will get off pretty easily. Telephone the police,Bunter, and then go and put something on that eye of yours. Gherkins,we'll give these gentlemen another drink, and then I think perhapsyou'd better hop back to bed; the fun's over. No? Well, put a goodthick coat on, there's a good fellow, because what your mother will sayto me if you catch a cold I don't like to think."

So the police had come and taken the burglars away, and nowDetective-Inspector Parker, of Scotland Yard, a great personal friendof Lord Peter's, sat toying with a cup of coffee and listening to thestory.

"But what's the matter with the jolly old book, anyhow, to make it sopopular?" he demanded.

"I don't know," replied Wimsey; "but after Mr. Pope's little visitthe other day I got kind of intrigued about it and had a look throughit. I've got a hunch it may turn out rather valuable, after all.Unsuspected beauties and all that sort of thing. If only Mr. Pope hadbeen a trifle more accurate in his facts, he might have got away withsomething to which I feel pretty sure he isn't entitled. Anyway, whenI'd seen—what I saw, I wrote off to Dr. Conyers of Yelsall Manor, thelate owner——"

"Conyers, the cancer man?"

"Yes. He's done some pretty important research in his time, I fancy.Getting on now, though; about seventy-eight, I fancy. I hope he's morehonest than his nephew, with one foot in the grave like that. Anyway, Iwrote (with Gherkins's permission, naturally) to say we had the book andhad been specially interested by something we found there, and would hebe so obliging as to tell us something of its history. I also——"

"But what did you find in it?"

"I don't think we'll tell him yet, Gherkins, shall we? I like to keeppolicemen guessing. As I was saying, when you so rudely interruptedme, I also asked him whether he knew anything about his good nephew'soffer to buy it back. His answer has just arrived. He says he knowsof nothing specially interesting about the book. It has been in thelibrary untold years, and the tearing out of the maps must have beendone a long time ago by some family vandal. He can't think why hisnephew should be so keen on it, as he certainly never pored over itas a boy. In fact, the old man declares the engaging Wilberforce hasnever even set foot in Yelsall Manor to his knowledge. So much for thefire-breathing monsters and the pleasant Sunday afternoons."

"Naughty Wilberforce!"

"M'm. Yes. So, after last night's little dust-up, I wired the old boywe were tooling down to Yelsall to have a heart-to-heart talk with himabout his picture-book and his nephew."

"Are you taking the book down with you?" asked Parker. "I can give youa police escort for it if you like."

"That's not a bad idea," said Wimsey. "We don't know where theinsinuating Mr. Pope may be hanging out, and I wouldn't put it past himto make another attempt."

"Better be on the safe side," said Parker. "I can't come myself, butI'll send down a couple of men with you."

"Good egg," said Lord Peter. "Call up your myrmidons. We'll get a carround at once. You're coming, Gherkins, I suppose? God knows what yourmother would say. Don't ever be an uncle, Charles; it's frightfullydifficult to be fair to all parties."

Yelsall Manor was one of those large, decaying country mansions whichspeak eloquently of times more spacious than our own. The original lateTudor construction had been masked by the addition of a wide frontagein the Italian manner, with a kind of classical portico surmountedby a pediment and approached by a semi-circular flight of steps. Thegrounds had originally been laid out in that formal manner in whichgrove nods to grove and each half duly reflects the other. A lateowner, however, had burst out into the more eccentric sort of landscapegardening which is associated with the name of Capability Brown. AChinese pagoda, somewhat resembling Sir William Chambers's erection inKew Gardens, but smaller, rose out of a grove of laurustinus towardsthe eastern extremity of the house, while at the rear appeared a largeartificial lake, dotted with numerous islands, on which odd littletemples, grottos, tea-houses, and bridges peeped out from among clumpsof shrubs, once ornamental, but now sadly overgrown. A boat-house,with wide eaves like the designs on a willow-pattern plate, stood atone corner, its landing-stage fallen into decay and wreathed withmelancholy weeds.

"My disreputable old ancestor, Cuthbert Conyers, settled down here whenhe retired from the sea in 1732," said Dr. Conyers, smiling faintly."His elder brother died childless, so the black sheep returned to thefold with the determination to become respectable and found a family.I fear he did not succeed altogether. There were very queer tales asto where his money came from. He is said to have been a pirate, andto have sailed with the notorious Captain Blackbeard. In the village,to this day, he is remembered and spoken of as Cut-throat Conyers. Itused to make the old man very angry, and there is an unpleasant storyof his slicing the ears off a groom who had been heard to call him 'OldCut-throat.' He was not an uncultivated person, though. It was he whodid the landscape-gardening round at the back, and he built the pagodafor his telescope. He was reputed to study the Black Art, and therewere certainly a number of astrological works in the library with hisname on the fly-leaf, but probably the telescope was only a remembranceof his seafaring days.

"Anyhow, towards the end of his life he became more and more odd andmorose. He quarrelled with his family, and turned his younger son outof doors with his wife and children. An unpleasant old fellow.

"On his deathbed he was attended by the parson—a good, earnest,God-fearing sort of man, who must have put up with a deal of insultin carrying out what he firmly believed to be the sacred duty ofreconciling the old man to this shamefully treated son. Eventually,'Old Cut-throat' relented so far as to make a will, leaving to theyounger son 'My treasure which I have buried in Munster.' The parsonrepresented to him that it was useless to bequeath a treasure unless healso bequeathed the information where to find it, but the horrid oldpirate only chuckled spitefully, and said that, as he had been at thepains to collect the treasure, his son might well be at the pains oflooking for it. Further than that he would not go, and so he died, andI dare say went to a very bad place.

"Since then the family has died out, and I am the sole representativeof the Conyers, and heir to the treasure, whatever and wherever it is,for it was never discovered. I do not suppose it was very honestly comeby, but, since it would be useless now to try and find the originalowners, I imagine I have a better right to it than anybody living.

"You may think it very unseemly, Lord Peter, that an old, lonely manlike myself should be greedy for a hoard of pirate's gold. But my wholelife has been devoted to studying the disease of cancer, and I believemyself to be very close to a solution of one part at least of theterrible problem. Research costs money, and my limited means are verynearly exhausted. The property is mortgaged up to the hilt, and I domost urgently desire to complete my experiments before I die, and toleave a sufficient sum to found a clinic where the work can be carriedon.

"During the last year I have made very great efforts to solve themystery of 'Old Cut-throat's' treasure. I have been able to leave muchof my experimental work in the most capable hands of my assistant, Dr.Forbes, while I pursued my researches with the very slender clue I hadto go upon. It was the more expensive and difficult that Cuthbert hadleft no indication in his will whether Münster in Germany or Munster inIreland was the hiding-place of the treasure. My journeys and my searchin both places cost money and brought me no further on my quest. Ireturned, disheartened, in August, and found myself obliged to sell mylibrary, in order to defray my expenses and obtain a little money withwhich to struggle on with my sadly delayed experiments."

"Ah!" said Lord Peter. "I begin to see light."

The old physician looked at him enquiringly. They had finished tea,and were seated around the great fireplace in the study. Lord Peter'sinterested questions about the beautiful, dilapidated old house andestate had led the conversation naturally to Dr. Conyers's family,shelving for the time the problem of the Cosmographia, which lay on atable beside them.

"Everything you say fits into the puzzle," went on Wimsey, "and I thinkthere's not the smallest doubt what Mr. Wilberforce Pope was after,though how he knew that you had the Cosmographia here I couldn't say."

"When I disposed of the library, I sent him a catalogue," said Dr.Conyers. "As a relative, I thought he ought to have the right to buyanything he fancied. I can't think why he didn't secure the book then,instead of behaving in this most shocking fashion."

Lord Peter hooted with laughter.

"Why, because he never tumbled to it till afterwards," he said. "Andoh, dear, how wild he must have been! I forgive him everything.Although," he added, "I don't want to raise your hopes too high, sir,for, even when we've solved old Cuthbert's riddle, I don't know thatwe're very much nearer to the treasure."

"To the treasure?"

"Well, now, sir. I want you first to look at this page, where there's aname scrawled in the margin. Our ancestors had an untidy way of signingtheir possessions higgledy-piggledy in margins instead of in a decent,Christian way in the fly-leaf. This is a handwriting of somewhere aboutCharles I's reign: 'Jac: Coniers.' I take it that goes to prove thatthe book was in the possession of your family at any rate as early asthe first half of the seventeenth century, and has remained there eversince. Right. Now we turn to page 1099, where we find a description ofthe discoveries of Christopher Columbus. It's headed, you see, by akind of map, with some of Mr. Pope's monsters swimming about in it, andapparently representing the Canaries, or, as they used to be called,the Fortunate Isles. It doesn't look much more accurate than old mapsusually are, but I take it the big island on the right is meant forLanzarote, and the two nearest to it may be Teneriffe and Gran Canaria."

"But what's that writing in the middle?"

"That's just the point. The writing is later than 'Jac: Coniers's'signature; I should put it about 1700—but, of course, it may havebeen written a good deal later still. I mean, a man who was elderly in1730 would still use the style of writing he adopted as a young man,especially if, like your ancestor the pirate, he had spent the earlypart of his life in outdoor pursuits and hadn't done much writing."

"Do you mean to say, Uncle Peter," broke in the viscount excitedly,"that that's 'Old Cut-throat's' writing?"

"I'd be ready to lay a sporting bet it is. Look here, sir, you've beenscouring round Münster in Germany and Munster in Ireland—but how aboutgood old Sebastian Munster here in the library at home?"

"God bless my soul! Is it possible?"

"It's pretty nearly certain, sir. Here's what he says, written, yousee, round the head of that sort of sea-dragon:

"Rather doggy Latin—sea-dog Latin, you might say, in fact."

"I'm afraid," said Dr. Conyers, "I must be very stupid, but I can't seewhere that leads us."

"No; 'Old Cut-throat' was rather clever. No doubt he thought that,if anybody read it, they'd think it was just an allusion to whereit says, further down, that 'the islands were called Fortunatæbecause of the wonderful temperature of the air and the clemency ofthe skies.' But the cunning old astrologer up in his pagoda had ameaning of his own. Here's a little book published in 1678—Middleton'sPractical Astrology—just the sort of popular handbook an amateurlike 'Old Cut-throat' would use. Here you are: 'If in your figure youfind Jupiter or Venus or Dragon's head, you may be confident thereis Treasure in the place supposed.... If you find Sol to be thesignificator of the hidden Treasure, you may conclude there is Gold, orsome jewels.' You know, sir, I think we may conclude it."

"Dear me!" said Dr. Conyers. "I believe, indeed, you must be right. AndI am ashamed to think that if anybody had suggested to me that it couldever be profitable to me to learn the terms of astrology, I should havereplied in my vanity that my time was too valuable to waste on suchfoolishness. I am deeply indebted to you."

"Yes," said Gherkins, "but where is the treasure, uncle?"

"That's just it," said Lord Peter. "The map is very vague; there is nolatitude or longitude given; and the directions, such as they are, seemnot even to refer to any spot on the islands, but to some place in themiddle of the sea. Besides, it is nearly two hundred years since thetreasure was hidden, and it may already have been found by somebody orother."

Dr. Conyers stood up.

"I am an old man," he said, "but I still have some strength. If I canby any means get together the money for an expedition, I will not resttill I have made every possible effort to find the treasure and toendow my clinic."

"Then, sir, I hope you'll let me give a hand to the good work," saidLord Peter.

Dr. Conyers had invited his guests to stay the night, and, after theexcited viscount had been packed off to bed, Wimsey and the old mansat late, consulting maps and diligently reading Munster's chapter"De Novis Insulis," in the hope of discovering some further clue.At length, however, they separated, and Lord Peter went upstairs, thebook under his arm. He was restless, however, and, instead of goingto bed, sat for a long time at his window, which looked out upon thelake. The moon, a few days past the full, was riding high among small,windy clouds, and picked out the sharp eaves of the Chinese tea-housesand the straggling tops of the unpruned shrubs. 'Old Cut-throat' andhis landscape-gardening! Wimsey could have fancied that the old piratewas sitting now beside his telescope in the preposterous pagoda,chuckling over his riddling testament and counting the craters of themoon. "If Luna, there is silver." The water of the lake was silverenough; there was a great smooth path across it, broken by the sinisterwedge of the boat-house, the black shadows of the islands, and, almostin the middle of the lake, a decayed fountain, a writhing Celestialdragon-shape, spiny-backed and ridiculous.

Wimsey rubbed his eyes. There was something strangely familiar aboutthe lake; from moment to moment it assumed the queer unreality of aplace which one recognises without having ever known it. It was likeone's first sight of the Leaning Tower of Pisa—too like its pictureto be quite believable. Surely, thought Wimsey, he knew that elongatedisland on the right, shaped rather like a winged monster, with its twolittle clumps of buildings. And the island to the left of it, like theBritish Isles, but warped out of shape. And the third island, betweenthe others, and nearer. The three formed a triangle, with the Chinesefountain in the centre, the moon shining steadily upon its dragon head."Hic in capite draconis ardet perpetuo——"

Lord Peter sprang up with a loud exclamation, and flung open thedoor into the dressing-room. A small figure wrapped in an eiderdownhurriedly uncoiled itself from the window-seat.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Peter," said Gherkins. "I was so dreadfully wideawake, it wasn't any good staying in bed."

"Come here," said Lord Peter, "and tell me if I'm mad or dreaming. Lookout of the window and compare it with the map—Old Cut-throat's 'NewIslands.' He made 'em, Gherkins; he put 'em here. Aren't they laid outjust like the Canaries? Those three islands in a triangle, and thefourth down here in the corner? And the boat-house where the big shipis in the picture? And the dragon fountain where the dragon's head is?Well, my son, that's where your hidden treasure's gone to. Get yourthings on, Gherkins, and damn the time when all good little boys shouldbe in bed! We're going for a row on the lake, if there's a tub in thatboat-house that'll float."

"Oh, Uncle Peter! This is a real adventure!"

"All right," said Wimsey. "Fifteen men on the dead man's chest, and allthat! Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of Johnny Walker! Pirate expedition fittedout in dead of night to seek hidden treasure and explore the FortunateIsles! Come on, crew!"

Lord Peter hitched the leaky dinghy to the dragon's knobbly tail andclimbed out carefully, for the base of the fountain was green and weedy.

"I'm afraid it's your job to sit there and bail, Gherkins," he said."All the best captains bag the really interesting jobs for themselves.We'd better start with the head. If the old blighter said head,he probably meant it." He passed an arm affectionately round thecreature's neck for support, while he methodically pressed and pulledthe various knobs and bumps of its anatomy. "It seems beastly solid,but I'm sure there's a spring somewhere. You won't forget to bail, willyou? I'd simply hate to turn round and find the boat gone. Pirate chiefmarooned on island and all that. Well, it isn't its back hair, anyhow.We'll try its eyes. I say, Gherkins, I'm sure I felt something move,only it's frightfully stiff. We might have thought to bring some oil.Never mind; it's dogged as does it. It's coming. It's coming. Booh!Pah!"

A fierce effort thrust the rusted knob inwards, releasing a huge spoutof water into his face from the dragon's gaping throat. The fountain,dry for many years, soared rejoicingly heavenwards, drenching thetreasure-hunters, and making rainbows in the moonlight.

"I suppose this is 'Old Cut-throat's' idea of humour," grumbledWimsey, retreating cautiously round the dragon's neck. "And now I can'tturn it off again. Well, dash it all, let's try the other eye."

He pressed for a few moments in vain. Then, with a grinding clang, thebronze wings of the monster clapped down to its sides, revealing a deepsquare hole, and the fountain ceased to play.

"Gherkins!" said Lord Peter, "we've done it. (But don't neglect bailingon that account!) There's a box here. And it's beastly heavy. No;all right, I can manage. Gimme the boat-hook. Now I do hope the oldsinner really did have a treasure. What a bore if it's only one of hislittle jokes. Never mind—hold the boat steady. There. Always remember,Gherkins, that you can make quite an effective crane with a boat-hookand a stout pair of braces. Got it? That's right. Now for home andbeauty.... Hullo! what's all that?"

As he paddled the boat round, it was evident that something washappening down by the boat-house. Lights were moving about, and a soundof voices came across the lake.

"They think we're burglars, Gherkins. Always misunderstood. Give way,my hearties—

"Is that you, my lord?" said a man's voice as they drew in to theboat-house.

"Why, it's our faithful sleuths!" cried his lordship. "What's theexcitement?"

"We found this fellow sneaking round the boat-house," said the man fromScotland Yard. "He says he's the old gentleman's nephew. Do you knowhim, my lord?"

"I rather fancy I do," said Wimsey. "Mr. Pope, I think. Good evening.Were you looking for anything? Not a treasure, by any chance? Becausewe've just found one. Oh! don't say that. Maxima reverentia, youknow. Lord St. George is of tender years. And, by the way, thank you somuch for sending your delightful friends to call on me last night. Oh,yes, Thompson, I'll charge him all right. You there, doctor? Splendid.Now, if anybody's got a spanner or anything handy, we'll have a look atGreat-grandpapa Cuthbert. And if he turns out to be old iron, Mr. Pope,you'll have had an uncommonly good joke for your money."

An iron bar was produced from the boat-house and thrust under the haspof the chest. It creaked and burst. Dr. Conyers knelt down tremulouslyand threw open the lid.

There was a little pause.

"The drinks are on you, Mr. Pope," said Lord Peter. "I think, doctor,it ought to be a jolly good hospital when it's finished."

THE PISCATORIAL FARCE OF THE STOLEN STOMACH

"What in the world," said Lord Peter Wimsey, "is that?"

Thomas Macpherson disengaged the tall jar from its final swathings ofpaper and straw and set it tenderly upright beside the coffee-pot.

"That," he said, "is Great-Uncle Joseph's legacy."

"And who is Great-Uncle Joseph?"

"He was my mother's uncle. Name of Ferguson. Eccentric old boy. I wasrather a favourite of his."

"It looks like it. Was that all he left you?"

"Imph'm. He said a good digestion was the most precious thing a mancould have."

"Well, he was right there. Is this his? Was it a good one?"

"Good enough. He lived to be ninety-five, and never had a day'sillness."

Wimsey looked at the jar with increased respect.

"What did he die of?"

"Chucked himself out of a sixth-story window. He had a stroke, and thedoctors told him—or he guessed for himself—that it was the beginningof the end. He left a letter. Said he had never been ill in his lifeand wasn't going to begin now. They brought it in temporary insanity,of course, but I think he was thoroughly sensible."

"I should say so. What was he when he was functioning?"

"He used to be in business—something to do with ship-building, Ibelieve, but he retired long ago. He was what the papers call arecluse. Lived all by himself in a little top flat in Glasgow, and sawnobody. Used to go off by himself for days at a time, nobody knew whereor why. I used to look him up about once a year and take him a bottleof whisky."

"Had he any money?"

"Nobody knew. He ought to have had—he was a rich man when he retired.But, when we came to look into it, it turned out he only had a balanceof about five hundred pounds in the Glasgow Bank. Apparently he drewout almost everything he had about twenty years ago. There were one ortwo big bank failures round about that time, and they thought he musthave got the wind up. But what he did with it, goodness only knows."

"Kept it in an old stocking, I expect."

"I should think Cousin Robert devoutly hopes so."

"Cousin Robert?"

"He's the residuary legatee. Distant connection of mine, and the onlyremaining Ferguson. He was awfully wild when he found he'd only gotfive hundred. He's rather a bright lad, is Robert, and a few thousandswould have come in handy."

"I see. Well, how about a bit of brekker? You might stick Great-UncleJoseph out of the way somewhere. I don't care about the looks of him."

"I thought you were rather partial to anatomical specimens."

"So I am, but not on the breakfast-table. 'A place for everything andeverything in its place,' as my grandmother used to say. Besides, itwould give Maggie a shock if she saw it."

Macpherson laughed, and transferred the jar to a cupboard.

"Maggie's shock-proof. I brought a few odd bones and things with me, byway of a holiday task. I'm getting near my final, you know. She'll justthink this is another of them. Ring the bell, old man, would you? We'llsee what the trout's like."

The door opened to admit the housekeeper, with a dish of grilled troutand a plate of fried scones.

"These look good, Maggie," said Wimsey, drawing his chair up andsniffing appreciatively.

"Aye, sir, they're gude, but they're awfu' wee fish."

"Don't grumble at them," said Macpherson. "They're the sole result of aday's purgatory up on Loch Whyneon. What with the sun fit to roast youand an east wind, I'm pretty well flayed alive. I very nearly didn'tshave at all this morning." He passed a reminiscent hand over his redand excoriated face. "Ugh! It's a stiff pull up that hill, and the boatwas going wallop, wallop all the time, like being in the Bay of Biscay."

"Damnable, I should think. But there's a change coming. The glass isgoing back. We'll be having some rain before we're many days older."

"Time, too," said Macpherson. "The burns are nearly dry, and there'snot much water in the Fleet." He glanced out of the window to where thelittle river ran tinkling and skinkling over the stones at the bottomof the garden. "If only we get a few days' rain now, there'll be somegrand fishing."

"It would come just as I've got to go, naturally," remarked Wimsey.

"Yes; can't you stay a bit longer? I want to have a try for somesea-trout."

"Sorry, old man, can't be done. I must be in Town on Wednesday. Nevermind. I've had a fine time in the fresh air and got in some good roundsof golf."

"You must come up another time. I'm here for a month—getting mystrength up for the exams and all that. If you can't get away beforeI go, we'll put it off till August and have a shot at the grouse. Thecottage is always at your service, you know, Wimsey."

"Many thanks. I may get my business over quicker than I think, and, ifI do, I'll turn up here again. When did you say your great-uncle died?"

Macpherson stared at him.

"Some time in April, as far as I can remember. Why?"

"Oh, nothing—I just wondered. You were a favourite of his, didn't yousay?"

"In a sense. I think the old boy liked my remembering him from time totime. Old people are pleased by little attentions, you know."

"M'm. Well, it's a queer world. What did you say his name was?"

"Ferguson—Joseph Alexander Ferguson, to be exact. You seemextraordinarily interested in Great-Uncle Joseph."

"I thought, while I was about it, I might look up a man I know in theship-building line, and see if he knows anything about where the moneywent to."

"If you can do that, Cousin Robert will give you a medal. But, if youreally want to exercise your detective powers on the problem, you'dbetter have a hunt through the flat in Glasgow."

"Yes—what is the address, by the way?"

Macpherson told him the address.

"I'll make a note of it, and, if anything occurs to me, I'llcommunicate with Cousin Robert. Where does he hang out?"

"Oh, he's in London, in a solicitor's office. Crosbie & Plump,somewhere in Bloomsbury. Robert was studying for the Scottish Bar, youknow, but he made rather a mess of things, so they pushed him off amongthe Sassenachs. His father died a couple of years ago—he was a Writerto the Signet in Edinburgh—and I fancy Robert has rather gone to thebow-wows since then. Got among a cheerful crowd down there, don't youknow, and wasted his substance somewhat."

"Terrible! Scotsmen shouldn't be allowed to leave home. What are yougoing to do with Great-Uncle?"

"Oh, I don't know. Keep him for a bit, I think. I liked the oldfellow, and I don't want to throw him away. He'll look rather well inmy consulting-room, don't you think, when I'm qualified and set up mybrass plate. I'll say he was presented by a grateful patient on whom Iperformed a marvellous operation."

"That's a good idea. Stomach-grafting. Miracle of surgery never beforeattempted. He'll bring sufferers to your door in flocks."

"Good old Great-Uncle—he may be worth a fortune to me after all."

"So he may. I don't suppose you've got such a thing as a photograph ofhim, have you?"

"A photograph?" Macpherson stared again. "Great-Uncle seems to bebecoming a passion with you. I don't suppose the old man had aphotograph taken these thirty years. There was one done then—when heretired from business. I expect Robert's got that."

"Och aye," said Wimsey, in the language of the country.

Wimsey left Scotland that evening, and drove down through the nighttowards London, thinking hard as he went. He handled the wheelmechanically, swerving now and again to avoid the green eyes of rabbitsas they bolted from the roadside to squat fascinated in the glare ofhis head-lamps. He was accustomed to say that his brain worked betterwhen his immediate attention was occupied by the incidents of the road.

Monday morning found him in town with his business finished and histhinking done. A consultation with his ship-building friend had puthim in possession of some facts about Great-Uncle Joseph's money,together with a copy of Great-Uncle Joseph's photograph, supplied bythe London representative of the Glasgow firm to which he had belonged.It appeared that old Ferguson had been a man of mark in his day. Theportrait showed a fine, dour old face, long-lipped and high in thecheek-bones—one of those faces which alter little in a lifetime.Wimsey looked at the photograph with satisfaction as he slipped it intohis pocket and made a bee-line for Somerset House.

Here he wandered timidly about the wills department, till a uniformedofficial took pity on him and enquired what he wanted.

"Oh, thank you," said Wimsey effusively, "thank you so much. Alwaysfeel nervous in these places. All these big desks and things, don't youknow, so awe-inspiring and business-like. Yes, I just wanted to have asquint at a will. I'm told you can see anybody's will for a shilling.Is that really so?"

"Yes, sir, certainly. Anybody's will in particular, sir?"

"Oh, yes, of course—how silly of me. Yes. Curious, isn't it, thatwhen you're dead any stranger can come and snoop round your privateaffairs—see how much you cut up for and who your lady friends were,and all that. Yes. Not at all nice. Horrid lack of privacy, what?"

The attendant laughed.

"I expect it's all one when you're dead, sir."

"That's awfully true. Yes, naturally, you're dead by then and itdoesn't matter. May be a bit trying for your relations, of course, tolearn what a bad boy you've been. Great fun annoyin' one's relations.Always do it myself. Now, what were we sayin'? Ah! yes—the will. (I'malways so absent-minded.) Whose will, you said? Well, it's an old Scotsgentleman called Joseph Alexander Ferguson that died at Glasgow—youknow Glasgow, where the accent's so strong that even Scotsmen faintwhen they hear it—in April, this last April as ever was. If it's nottroubling you too much, may I have a bob's-worth of Joseph AlexanderFerguson?"

The attendant assured him that he might, adding the caution that hemust memorise the contents of the will and not on any account takenotes. Thus warned, Wimsey was conducted into a retired corner, wherein a short time the will was placed before him.

It was a commendably brief document, written in holograph, and wasdated the previous January. After the usual preamble and the bequestof a few small sums and articles of personal ornament to friends, itproceeded somewhat as follows:

"And I direct that, after my death, the alimentary organs be removedentire with their contents from my body, commencing with the œsophagusand ending with the anal canal, and that they be properly securedat both ends with a suitable ligature, and be enclosed in a properpreservative medium in a glass vessel and given to my great-nephewThomas Macpherson of the Stone Cottage, Gatehouse-of-the-Fleet, inKirkcudbrightshire, now studying medicine in Aberdeen. And I bequeathhim these my alimentary organs with their contents for his study andedification, they having served me for ninety-five years withoutfailure or defect, because I wish him to understand that no richesin the world are comparable to the riches of a good digestion. And Idesire of him that he will, in the exercise of his medical profession,use his best endeavours to preserve to his patients the blessing ofgood digestion unimpaired, not needlessly filling their stomachs withdrugs out of concern for his own pocket, but exhorting them to a soberand temperate life agreeably to the design of Almighty Providence."

After this remarkable passage, the document went on to make RobertFerguson residuary legatee without particular specification of anyproperty, and to appoint a firm of lawyers in Glasgow executors of thewill.

Wimsey considered the bequest for some time. From the phraseology heconcluded that old Mr. Ferguson had drawn up his own will without legalaid, and he was glad of it, for its wording thus afforded a valuableclue to the testator's mood and intention. He mentally noted threepoints: the "alimentary organs with their contents" were mentionedtwice over, with a certain emphasis; they were to be ligatured top andbottom; and the legacy was accompanied by the expression of a wish thatthe legatee should not allow his financial necessities to interferewith the conscientious exercise of his professional duties. Wimseychuckled. He felt he rather liked Great-Uncle Joseph.

He got up, collected his hat, gloves, and stick, and advanced with thewill in his hand to return it to the attendant. The latter was engagedin conversation with a young man, who seemed to be expostulating aboutsomething.

"I'm sorry, sir," said the attendant, "but I don't suppose the othergentleman will be very long. Ah!" He turned and saw Wimsey. "Here isthe gentleman."

The young man, whose reddish hair, long nose, and slightly sodden eyesgave him the appearance of a dissipated fox, greeted Wimsey with adisagreeable stare.

"What's up? Want me?" asked his lordship airily.

"Yes, sir. Very curious thing, sir; here's a gentleman enquiring forthat very same document as you've been studying, sir. I've been in thisdepartment fifteen years, and I don't know as I ever remember such athing happening before."

"No," said Wimsey, "I don't suppose there's much of a run on any ofyour lines as a rule."

"It's a very curious thing indeed," said the stranger, with markeddispleasure in his voice.

"Member of the family?" suggested Wimsey.

"I am a member of the family," said the foxy-faced man. "May I askwhether you have any connection with us?"

"By all means," replied Wimsey graciously.

"I don't believe it. I don't know you."

"No, no—I meant you might ask, by all means."

The young man positively showed his teeth.

"Do you mind telling me who you are, anyhow, and why you're so damnedinquisitive about my great-uncle's will?"

Wimsey extracted a card from his case and presented it with a smile.Mr. Robert Ferguson changed colour.

"If you would like a reference as to my respectability," went onWimsey affably, "Mr. Thomas Macpherson will, I am sure, be happy totell you about me. I am inquisitive," said his lordship—"a student ofhumanity. Your cousin mentioned to me the curious clause relating toyour esteemed great-uncle's—er—stomach and appurtenances. Curiousclauses are a passion with me. I came to look it up and add it to mycollection of curious wills. I am engaged in writing a book on thesubject—Clauses and Consequences. My publishers tell me it shouldenjoy a ready sale. I regret that my random jottings should haveencroached upon your doubtless far more serious studies. I wish you avery good morning."

As he beamed his way out, Wimsey, who had quick ears, heard theattendant informing the indignant Mr. Ferguson that he was "a veryfunny gentleman—not quite all there, sir." It seemed that hiscriminological fame had not penetrated to the quiet recesses ofSomerset House. "But," said Wimsey to himself, "I am sadly afraid thatCousin Robert has been given food for thought."

Under the spur of this alarming idea, Wimsey wasted no time, but tooka taxi down to Hatton Garden, to call upon a friend of his. Thisgentleman, rather curly in the nose and fleshy about the eyelids,nevertheless came under Mr. Chesterton's definition of a nice Jew, forhis name was neither Montagu nor McDonald, but Nathan Abrahams, and hegreeted Lord Peter with a hospitality amounting to enthusiasm.

"So pleased to see you. Sit down and have a drink. You have come atlast to select the diamonds for the future Lady Peter, eh?"

"Not yet," said Wimsey.

"No? That's too bad. You should make haste and settle down. It istime you became a family man. Years ago we arranged I should have theprivilege of decking the bride for the happy day. That is a promise,you know. I think of it when the fine stones pass through my hands. Isay, 'That would be the very thing for my friend Lord Peter.' But Ihear nothing, and I sell them to stupid Americans who think only of theprice and not of the beauty."

"Time enough to think of the diamonds when I've found the lady."

Mr. Abrahams threw up his hands.

"Oh, yes! And then everything will be done in a hurry! 'Quick, Mr.Abrahams! I have fallen in love yesterday and I am being marriedto-morrow.' But it may take months—years—to find and match perfectstones. It can't be done between to-day and to-morrow. Your bride willbe married in something ready-made from the jeweller's."

"If three days are enough to choose a wife," said Wimsey, laughing,"one day should surely be enough for a necklace."

"That is the way with Christians," replied the diamond-merchantresignedly. "You are so casual. You do not think of the future. Threedays to choose a wife! No wonder the divorce-courts are busy. My sonMoses is being married next week. It has been arranged in the familythese ten years. Rachel Goldstein, it is. A good girl, and her fatheris in a very good position. We are all very pleased, I can tellyou. Moses is a good son, a very good son, and I am taking him intopartnership."

"I congratulate you," said Wimsey heartily. "I hope they will be veryhappy."

"Thank you, Lord Peter. They will be happy, I am sure. Rachel isa sweet girl and very fond of children. And she is pretty, too.Prettiness is not everything, but it is an advantage for a young man inthese days. It is easier for him to behave well to a pretty wife."

"True," said Wimsey. "I will bear it in mind when my time comes. To thehealth of the happy pair, and may you soon be an ancestor. Talking ofancestors, I've got an old bird here that you may be able to tell mesomething about."

"Ah, yes! Always delighted to help you in any way, Lord Peter."

"This photograph was taken some thirty years ago, but you may possiblyrecognise it."

Mr. Abrahams put on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, and examined theportrait of Great-Uncle Joseph with serious attention.

"Oh, yes, I know him quite well. What do you want to know about him,eh?" He shot a swift and cautious glance at Wimsey.

"Nothing to his disadvantage. He's dead, anyhow. I thought it justpossible he had been buying precious stones lately."

"It is not exactly business to give information about a customer," saidMr. Abrahams.

"I'll tell you what I want it for," said Wimsey. He lightly sketchedthe career of Great-Uncle Joseph, and went on: "You see, I looked at itthis way. When a man gets a distrust of banks, what does he do with hismoney? He puts it into property of some kind. It may be land, it maybe houses—but that means rent, and more money to put into banks. Heis more likely to keep it in gold or notes, or to put it into preciousstones. Gold and notes are comparatively bulky; stones are small.Circ*mstances in this case led me to think he might have chosen stones.Unless we can discover what he did with the money, there will be agreat loss to his heirs."

"I see. Well, if it is as you say, there is no harm in telling you. Iknow you to be an honourable man, and I will break my rule for you.This gentleman, Mr. Wallace——"

"Wallace, did he call himself?"

"That was not his name? They are funny, these secretive old gentlemen.But that is nothing unusual. Often, when they buy stones, they areafraid of being robbed, so they give another name. Yes, yes. Well,this Mr. Wallace used to come to see me from time to time, and I hadinstructions to find diamonds for him. He was looking for twelve bigstones, all matching perfectly and of superb quality. It took a longtime to find them, you know."

"Of course."

"Yes. I supplied him with seven altogether, over a period of twentyyears or so. And other dealers supplied him also. He is well knownin this street. I found the last one for him—let me see—in lastDecember, I think. A beautiful stone—beautiful! He paid seven thousandpounds for it."

"Some stone. If they were all as good as that, the collection must beworth something."

"Worth anything. It is difficult to tell how much. As you know, thetwelve stones, all matched together, would be worth far more than thesum of the twelve separate prices paid for the individual diamonds."

"Naturally they would. Do you mind telling me how he was accustomed topay for them?"

"In Bank of England notes—always—cash on the nail. He insisted ondiscount for cash," added Mr. Abrahams, with a chuckle.

"He was a Scotsman," replied Wimsey. "Well, that's clear enough. He hada safe-deposit somewhere, no doubt. And, having collected the stones,he made his will. That's clear as daylight, too."

"But what has become of the stones?" enquired Mr. Abrahams, withprofessional anxiety.

"I think I know that too," said Wimsey. "I'm enormously obliged to you,and so, I fancy, will his heir be."

"If they should come into the market again——" suggested Mr. Abrahams.

"I'll see you have the handling of them," said Wimsey promptly.

"That is kind of you," said Mr. Abrahams. "Business is business. Alwaysdelighted to oblige you. Beautiful stones—beautiful. If you thoughtof being the purchaser, I would charge you a special commission, as myfriend."

"Thank you," said Wimsey, "but as yet I have no occasion for diamonds,you know."

"Pity, pity," said Mr. Abrahams. "Well, very glad to have been ofservice to you. You are not interested in rubies? No? Because I havesomething very pretty here."

He thrust his hand casually into a pocket, and brought out a littlepool of crimson fire like a miniature sunset.

"Look nice in a ring, now, wouldn't it?" said Mr. Abrahams. "Anengagement ring, eh?"

Wimsey laughed, and made his escape.

He was strongly tempted to return to Scotland and attend personallyto the matter of Great-Uncle Joseph, but the thought of an importantbook sale next day deterred him. There was a manuscript of Catulluswhich he was passionately anxious to secure, and he never entrustedhis interests to dealers. He contented himself with sending a wire toThomas Macpherson:

"Advise opening up Great-uncle Joseph immediately."

The girl at the post-office repeated the message aloud and ratherdoubtfully. "Quite right," said Wimsey, and dismissed the affair fromhis mind.

He had great fun at the sale next day. He found a ring of dealers inpossession, happily engaged in conducting a knock-out. Having lain lowfor an hour in a retired position behind a large piece of statuary, heemerged, just as the hammer was falling upon the Catullus for a pricerepresenting the tenth part of its value, with an overbid so large,prompt, and sonorous that the ring gasped with a sense of outrage.Skrymes—a dealer who had sworn an eternal enmity to Wimsey, on accountof a previous little encounter over a Justinian—pulled himselftogether and offered a fifty-pound advance. Wimsey promptly doubled hisbid. Skrymes overbid him fifty again. Wimsey instantly jumped anotherhundred, in the tone of a man prepared to go on till Doomsday. Skrymesscowled and was silent. Somebody raised it fifty more; Wimsey madeit guineas and the hammer fell. Encouraged by this success, Wimsey,feeling that his hand was in, romped happily into the bidding for thenext lot, a Hypnerotomachia which he already possessed, and for whichhe felt no desire whatever. Skrymes, annoyed by his defeat, set histeeth, determining that, if Wimsey was in the bidding mood, he shouldpay through the nose for his rashness. Wimsey, entering into the spiritof the thing, skied the bidding with enthusiasm. The dealers, knowinghis reputation as a collector, and fancying that there must be somespecial excellence about the book that they had failed to observe,joined in whole-heartedly, and the fun became fast and furious.Eventually they all dropped out again, leaving Skrymes and Wimsey intogether. At which point Wimsey, observing a note of hesitation in thedealer's voice, neatly extricated himself and left Mr. Skrymes with thebaby. After this disaster, the ring became sulky and demoralised andrefused to bid at all, and a timid little outsider, suddenly flinginghimself into the arena, became the owner of a fine fourteenth-centurymissal at bargain price. Crimson with excitement and surprise, hepaid for his purchase and ran out of the room like a rabbit, huggingthe missal as though he expected to have it snatched from him. Wimseythereupon set himself seriously to acquire a few fine early printedbooks, and, having accomplished this, retired, covered with laurels andhatred.

After this delightful and satisfying day, he felt vaguely hurt atreceiving no ecstatic telegram from Macpherson. He refused to imaginethat his deductions had been wrong, and supposed rather that therapture of Macpherson was too great to be confined to telegraphicexpression and would come next day by post. However, at eleven nextmorning the telegram arrived. It said:

"Just got your wire what does it mean great-uncle stolen last nightburglar escaped please write fully."

Wimsey committed himself to a brief comment in language usuallyconfined to the soldiery. Robert had undoubtedly got Great-UncleJoseph, and, even if they could trace the burglary to him, the legacywas by this time gone for ever. He had never felt so furiouslyhelpless. He even cursed the Catullus, which had kept him from goingnorth and dealing with the matter personally.

While he was meditating what to do, a second telegram was brought in.It ran:

"Great-uncle's bottle found broken in fleet dropped by burglar inflight contents gone what next."

Wimsey pondered this.

"Of course," he said, "if the thief simply emptied the bottle and putGreat-Uncle in his pocket, we're done. Or if he's simply emptiedGreat-Uncle and put the contents in his pocket, we're done. But'dropped in flight' sounds rather as though Great-Uncle had goneoverboard lock, stock, and barrel. Why can't the fool of a Scotsman puta few more details into his wires? It'd only cost him a penny or two. Isuppose I'd better go up myself. Meanwhile a little healthy occupationwon't hurt him."

He took a telegraph form from the desk and despatched a further message:

"Was great-uncle in bottle when dropped if so drag river if not pursueburglar probably Robert Ferguson spare no pains starting for Scotlandto-night hope arrive early to-morrow urgent important put your backinto it will explain."

The night express decanted Lord Peter Wimsey at Dumfries early thefollowing morning, and a hired car deposited him at the Stone Cottagein time for breakfast. The door was opened to him by Maggie, whogreeted him with hearty cordiality:

"Come awa' in, sir. All's ready for ye, and Mr. Macpherson will be backin a few minutes, I'm thinkin'. Ye'll be tired with your long journey,and hungry, maybe? Aye. Will ye tak' a bit parritch to your eggs andbacon? There's nae troot the day, though yesterday was a gran' day forthe fush. Mr. Macpherson has been up and doun, up and doun the riverwi' my Jock, lookin' for ane of his specimens, as he ca's them, thatwas dropped by the thief that cam' in. I dinna ken what the thing maybe—my Jock says it's like a calf's pluck to look at, by what Mr.Macpherson tells him."

"Dear me!" said Wimsey. "And how did the burglary happen, Maggie?"

"Indeed, sir, it was a vera' remarkable circ*mstance. Mr. Macphersonwas awa' all day Monday and Tuesday, up at the big loch by the viaduct,fishin'. There was a big rain Saturday and Sunday, ye may remember, andMr. Macpherson says, 'There'll be grand fishin' the morn, Jock,' sayshe. 'We'll go up to the viaduct if it stops rainin' and we'll spend thenicht at the keeper's lodge.' So on Monday it stoppit rainin' and was agrand warm, soft day, so aff they went together. There was a telegramcome for him Tuesday mornin', and I set it up on the mantelpiece, wherehe'd see it when he cam' in, but it's been in my mind since that maybethat telegram had something to do wi' the burglary."

"I wouldn't say but you might be right, Maggie," replied Wimsey gravely.

"Aye, sir, that wadna surprise me." Maggie set down a generous dish ofeggs and bacon before the guest and took up her tale again.

"Well, I was sittin' in my kitchen the Tuesday nicht, waitin' for Mr.Macpherson and Jock to come hame, and sair I pitied them, the puirsouls, for the rain was peltin' down again, and the nicht was saedark I was afraid they micht ha' tummelt into a bog-pool. Weel, Iwas listenin' for the sound o' the door-sneck when I heard somethingmovin' in the front room. The door wasna lockit, ye ken, because Mr.Macpherson was expectit back. So I up from my chair and I thocht theyhad mebbe came in and I not heard them. I waited a meenute to set thekettle on the fire, and then I heard a crackin' sound. So I cam' outand I called, 'Is't you, Mr. Macpherson?' And there was nae answer,only anither big crackin' noise, so I ran forrit, and a man cam'quickly oot o' the front room, brushin' past me an' puttin' me asidewi' his hand, so, and oot o' the front door like a flash o' lightnin'.So, wi' that, I let oot a skelloch, an' Jock's voice answered me fra'the gairden gate. 'Och!' I says, 'Jock! here's a burrglar been i'the hoose!' An' I heerd him runnin' across the gairden, doun tae theriver, tramplin' doun a' the young kail and the stra'berry beds, theblackguard!"

Wimsey expressed his sympathy.

"Aye, that was a bad business. An' the next thing, there was Mr.Macpherson and Jock helter-skelter after him. If Davie Murray's cattlehad brokken in, they couldna ha' done mair deevastation. An' then therewas a big splashin' an' crashin', an', after a bit, back comes Mr.Macpherson an' he says, 'He's jumpit intil the Fleet,' he says, 'an'he's awa'. What has he taken?' he says. 'I dinna ken,' says I, 'for itall happened sae quickly I couldna see onything.' 'Come awa' ben,' sayshe, 'an' we'll see what's missin'.' So we lookit high and low, an' allwe could find was the cupboard door in the front room broken open, andnaething taken but this bottle wi' the specimen."

"Aha!" said Wimsey.

"Ah! an' they baith went oot tegither wi' lichts, but naething couldthey see of the thief. Sae Mr. Macpherson comes back, and 'I'm gaun toma bed,' says he, 'for I'm that tired I can dae nae mair the nicht,'says he. 'Oh!' I said, 'I daurna gae tae bed; I'm frichtened.' An' Jocksaid, 'Hoots, wumman, dinna fash yersel'. There'll be nae mair burglarsthe nicht, wi' the fricht we've gied 'em.' So we lockit up a' the doorsan' windies an' gaed to oor beds, but I couldna sleep a wink."

"Very natural," said Wimsey.

"It wasna till the next mornin'," said Maggie, "that Mr. Macphersonopened yon telegram. Eh! but he was in a taking. An' then the telegramsstartit. Back an' forrit, back an' forrit atween the hoose an' thepost-office. An' then they fund the bits o' the bottle that thespecimen was in, stuck between twa stanes i' the river. And aff goesMr. Macpherson an' Jock wi' their waders on an' a couple o' gaffs,huntin' in a' the pools an' under the stanes to find the specimen. An'they're still at it."

At this point three heavy thumps sounded on the ceiling.

"Gude save us!" ejacul*ted Maggie, "I was forgettin' the puirgentleman."

"What gentleman?" enquired Wimsey.

"Him that was feshed oot o' the Fleet," replied Maggie. "Excuse mejuist a moment, sir."

She fled swiftly upstairs. Wimsey poured himself out a third cup ofcoffee and lit a pipe.

Presently a thought occurred to him. He finished the coffee—notbeing a man to deprive himself of his pleasures—and walked quietlyupstairs in Maggie's wake. Facing him stood a bedroom door, halfopen—the room which he had occupied during his stay at the cottage.He pushed it open. In the bed lay a red-headed gentleman, whose long,foxy countenance was in no way beautified by a white bandage, tiltedrakishly across the left temple. A breakfast-tray stood on a table bythe bed. Wimsey stepped forward with extended hand.

"Good morning, Mr. Ferguson," said he. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

"Good morning," said Mr. Ferguson snappishly.

"I had no idea, when we last met," pursued Wimsey, advancing to the bedand sitting down upon it, "that you were thinking of visiting my friendMacpherson."

"Get off my leg," growled the invalid. "I've broken my kneecap."

"What a nuisance! Frightfully painful, isn't it? And they say it takesyears to get right—if it ever does get right. Is it what they call aPotts fracture? I don't know who Potts was, but it sounds impressive.How did you get it? Fishing?"

"Yes. A slip in that damned river."

"Beastly. Sort of thing that might happen to anybody. A keen fisher,Mr. Ferguson?"

"So-so."

"So am I, when I get the opportunity. What kind of fly do you fancy forthis part of the country? I rather like a Greenaway's Gadget myself.Ever tried it?"

"No," said Mr. Ferguson briefly.

"Some people find a Pink Sisket better, so they tell me. Do you useone? Have you got your fly-book here?"

"Yes—no," said Mr. Ferguson. "I dropped it."

"Pity. But do give me your opinion of the Pink Sisket."

"Not so bad," said Mr. Ferguson. "I've sometimes caught trout with it."

"You surprise me," said Wimsey, not unnaturally, since he had inventedthe Pink Sisket on the spur of the moment, and had hardly expectedhis improvisation to pass muster. "Well, I suppose this unluckyaccident has put a stop to your sport for the season. Damned bad luck.Otherwise, you might have helped us to have a go at the Patriarch."

"What's that? A trout?"

"Yes—a frightfully wily old fish. Lurks about in the Fleet. You neverknow where to find him. Any moment he may turn up in some pool orother. I'm going out with Mac to try for him to-day. He's a jewel of afellow. We've nicknamed him Great-Uncle Joseph. Hi! don't joggle aboutlike that—you'll hurt that knee of yours. Is there anything I can getfor you?"

He grinned amiably, and turned to answer a shout from the stairs.

"Hullo! Wimsey! is that you?"

"It is. How's sport?"

Macpherson came up the stairs four steps at a time, and met Wimsey onthe landing as he emerged from the bedroom.

"I say, d'you know who that is? It's Robert."

"I know. I saw him in town. Never mind him. Have you found Great-Uncle?"

"No, we haven't. What's all this mystery about? And what's Robertdoing here? What did you mean by saying he was the burglar? And why isGreat-Uncle Joseph so important?"

"One thing at a time. Let's find the old boy first. What have you beendoing?"

"Well, when I got your extraordinary messages I thought, of course, youwere off your rocker." (Wimsey groaned with impatience.) "But then Iconsidered what a funny thing it was that somebody should have thoughtGreat-Uncle worth stealing, and thought there might be some sense inwhat you said, after all." ("Dashed good of you," said Wimsey.) "So Iwent out and poked about a bit, you know. Not that I think there's thefaintest chance of finding anything, with the river coming down likethis. Well, I hadn't got very far—by the way, I took Jock with me. I'msure he thinks I'm mad, too. Not that he says anything; these peoplehere never commit themselves——"

"Confound Jock! Get on with it."

"Oh—well, before we'd got very far, we saw a fellow wading about inthe river with a rod and a creel. I didn't pay much attention, because,you see, I was wondering what you——Yes. Well! Jock noticed him andsaid to me, 'Yon's a queer kind of fisherman, I'm thinkin'.' So I had alook, and there he was, staggering about among the stones with his flyfloating away down the stream in front of him; and he was peering intoall the pools he came to, and poking about with a gaff. So I hailedhim, and he turned round, and then he put the gaff away in a bit of ahurry and started to reel in his line. He made an awful mess of it,"added Macpherson appreciatively.

"I can believe it," said Wimsey. "A man who admits to catching troutwith a Pink Sisket would make a mess of anything."

"A pink what?"

"Never mind. I only meant that Robert was no fisher. Get on."

"Well, he got the line hooked round something, and he was pulling andhauling, you know, and splashing about, and then it came out all of asudden, and he waved it all over the place and got my hat. That mademe pretty wild, and I made after him, and he looked round again, and Iyelled out, 'Good God, it's Robert!' And he dropped his rod and tookto his heels. And of course he slipped on the stones and came downan awful crack. We rushed forward and scooped him up and brought himhome. He's got a nasty bang on the head and a fractured patella. Veryinteresting. I should have liked to have a shot at setting it myself,but it wouldn't do, you know, so I sent for Strachan. He's a good man."

"You've had extraordinary luck about this business so far," saidWimsey. "Now the only thing left is to find Great-Uncle. How far downhave you got?"

"Not very far. You see, what with getting Robert home and setting hisknee and so on, we couldn't do much yesterday."

"Damn Robert! Great-Uncle may be away out to sea by this time. Let'sget down to it."

He took up a gaff from the umbrella-stand ("Robert's," interjectedMacpherson), and led the way out. The little river was foaming down ina brown spate, rattling stones and small boulders along in its passage.Every hole, every eddy might be a lurking-place for Great-Uncle Joseph.Wimsey peered irresolutely here and there—then turned suddenly to Jock.

"Where's the nearest spit of land where things usually get washed up?"he demanded.

"Eh, well! there's the Battery Pool, about a mile doon the river. Ye'llwhiles find things washed up there. Aye. Imph'm. There's a pool and abit sand, where the river mak's a bend. Ye'll mebbe find it there, I'mthinkin'. Mebbe no. I couldna say."

"Let's have a look, anyway."

Macpherson, to whom the prospect of searching the stream in detailappeared rather a dreary one, brightened a little at this.

"That's a good idea. If we take the car down to just above Gatehouse,we've only got two fields to cross."

The car was still at the door; the hired driver was enjoying thehospitality of the cottage. They pried him loose from Maggie's sconesand slipped down the road to Gatehouse.

"Those gulls seem rather active about something," said Wimsey, asthey crossed the second field. The white wings swooped backwards andforwards in narrowing circles over the yellow shoal. Raucous criesrose on the wind. Wimsey pointed silently with his hand. A long,unseemly object, like a drab purse, lay on the shore. The gulls,indignant, rose higher, squawking at the intruders. Wimsey ran forward,stooped, rose again with the long bag dangling from his fingers.

"Great-Uncle Joseph, I presume," he said, and raised his hat withold-fashioned courtesy.

"The gulls have had a wee peck at it here and there," said Jock. "It'llbe tough for them. Aye. They havena done so vera much with it."

"Aren't you going to open it?" said Macpherson impatiently.

"Not here," said Wimsey. "We might lose something." He dropped it intoJock's creel. "We'll take it home first and show it to Robert."

Robert greeted them with ill-disguised irritation.

"We've been fishing," said Wimsey cheerfully. "Look at our bonny weefush." He weighed the catch in his hand. "What's inside this wee fush,Mr. Ferguson?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," said Robert.

"Then why did you go fishing for it?" asked Wimsey pleasantly. "Haveyou got a surgical knife there, Mac?"

"Yes—here. Hurry up."

"I'll leave it to you. Be careful. I should begin with the stomach."

Macpherson laid Great-Uncle Joseph on the table, and slit him open witha practised hand.

"Gude be gracious to us!" cried Maggie, peering over his shoulder."What'll that be?"

Wimsey inserted a delicate finger and thumb into the cavities of UncleJoseph. "One—two—three——" The stones glittered like fire as he laidthem on the table. "Seven—eight—nine. That seems to be all. Try alittle farther down, Mac."

Speechless with astonishment, Mr. Macpherson dissected his legacy.

"Ten—eleven," said Wimsey. "I'm afraid the sea-gulls have got numbertwelve. I'm sorry, Mac."

"But how did they get there?" demanded Robert foolishly.

"Simple as shelling peas. Great-Uncle Joseph makes his will, swallowshis diamonds——"

"He must ha' been a grand man for a pill," said Maggie, with respect.

"—and jumps out of the window. It was as clear as crystal to anybodywho read the will. He told you, Mac, that the stomach was given you tostudy."

Robert Ferguson gave a deep groan.

"I knew there was something in it," he said. "That's why I went to lookup the will. And when I saw you there, I knew I was right. (Cursethis leg of mine!) But I never imagined for a moment——"

His eyes appraised the diamonds greedily.

"And what will the value of these same stones be?" enquired Jock.

"About seven thousand pounds apiece, taken separately. More than that,taken together."

"The old man was mad," said Robert angrily. "I shall dispute the will."

"I think not," said Wimsey. "There's such an offence as entering andstealing, you know."

"My God!" said Macpherson, handling the diamonds like a man in a dream."My God!"

"Seven thousan' pund," said Jock. "Did I unnerstan' ye richtly to saythat one o' they gulls is gaun aboot noo wi' seven thousan' punds'worth o' diamonds in his wame? Ech! it's just awfu' to think of. Guidday to you, sirs. I'll be gaun round to Jimmy McTaggart to ask will helend me the loan o' a gun."

THE UNSOLVED PUZZLE OF THE MAN WITH NO FACE

"And what would you say, sir," said the stout man, "to this herebusiness of the bloke what's been found down on the beach at EastFelpham?"

The rush of travellers after the Bank Holiday had caused an overflow ofthird-class passengers into the firsts, and the stout man was anxiousto seem at ease in his surroundings. The youngish gentleman whom headdressed had obviously paid full fare for a seclusion which he wasfated to forgo. He took the matter amiably enough, however, and repliedin a courteous tone:

"I'm afraid I haven't read more than the headlines. Murdered, Isuppose, wasn't he?"

"It's murder, right enough," said the stout man, with relish. "Cutabout he was, something shocking."

"More like as if a wild beast had done it," chimed in the thin, elderlyman opposite. "No face at all he hadn't got, by what my paper says.It'll be one of these maniacs, I shouldn't be surprised, what goesabout killing children."

"I wish you wouldn't talk about such things," said his wife, with ashudder. "I lays awake at nights thinking what might 'appen to Lizzie'sgirls, till my head feels regular in a fever, and I has such a sinkingin my inside I has to get up and eat biscuits. They didn't ought to putsuch dreadful things in the papers."

"It's better they should, ma'am," said the stout man, "then we'rewarned, so to speak, and can take our measures accordingly. Now, fromwhat I can make out, this unfortunate gentleman had gone bathing allby himself in a lonely spot. Now, quite apart from cramps, as is athing that might 'appen to the best of us, that's a very foolish thingto do."

"Just what I'm always telling my husband," said the young wife. Theyoung husband frowned and fidgeted. "Well, dear, it really isn't safe,and you with your heart not strong——" Her hand sought his under thenewspaper. He drew away, self-consciously, saying, "That'll do, Kitty."

"The way I look at it is this," pursued the stout man. "Here we've beenand had a war, what has left 'undreds o' men in what you might calla state of unstable ekilibrium. They've seen all their friends blownup or shot to pieces. They've been through five years of 'orrors andbloodshed, and it's given 'em what you might call a twist in the mindtowards 'orrors. They may seem to forget it and go along as peaceableas anybody to all outward appearance, but it's all artificial, if youget my meaning. Then, one day something 'appens to upset them—they 'aswords with the wife, or the weather's extra hot, as it is to-day—andsomething goes pop inside their brains and makes raving monsters ofthem. It's all in the books. I do a good bit of reading myself of anevening, being a bachelor without encumbrances."

"That's all very true," said a prim little man, looking up from hismagazine, "very true indeed—too true. But do you think it appliesin the present case? I've studied the literature of crime a gooddeal—I may say I make it my hobby—and it's my opinion there's morein this than meets the eye. If you will compare this murder with someof the most mysterious crimes of late years—crimes which, mind you,have never been solved, and, in my opinion, never will be—what doyou find?" He paused and looked round. "You will find many featuresin common with this case. But especially you will find that theface—and the face only, mark you—has been disfigured, as though toprevent recognition. As though to blot out the victim's personalityfrom the world. And you will find that, in spite of the most thoroughinvestigation, the criminal is never discovered. Now what does allthat point to? To organisation. Organisation. To an immensely powerfulinfluence at work behind the scenes. In this very magazine that I'mreading now"—he tapped the page impressively—"there's an account—nota faked-up story, but an account extracted from the annals of thepolice—of the organisation of one of these secret societies, whichmark down men against whom they bear a grudge, and destroy them.And, when they do this, they disfigure their faces with the mark ofthe Secret Society, and they cover up the track of the assassin socompletely—having money and resources at their disposal—that nobodyis ever able to get at them."

"I've read of such things, of course," admitted the stout man, "butI thought as they mostly belonged to the medeevial days. They had athing like that in Italy once. What did they call it now? A Gomorrah,was it? Are there any Gomorrahs nowadays?"

"You spoke a true word, sir, when you said Italy," replied the primman. "The Italian mind is made for intrigue. There's the Fascisti.That's come to the surface now, of course, but it started by being asecret society. And, if you were to look below the surface, you wouldbe amazed at the way in which that country is honeycombed with hiddenorganisations of all sorts. Don't you agree with me, sir?" he added,addressing the first-class passenger.

"Ah!" said the stout man, "no doubt this gentleman has been in Italyand knows all about it. Should you say this murder was the work of aGomorrah, sir?"

"I hope not, I'm sure," said the first-class passenger. "I mean, itrather destroys the interest, don't you think? I like a nice, quiet,domestic murder myself, with the millionaire found dead in the library.The minute I open a detective story and find a Camorra in it, myinterest seems to dry up and turn to dust and ashes—a sort of Sodomand Camorra, as you might say."

"I agree with you there," said the young husband, "from what you mightcall the artistic standpoint. But in this particular case I think theremay be something to be said for this gentleman's point of view."

"Well," admitted the first-class passenger, "not having read thedetails——"

"The details are clear enough," said the prim man. "This poor creaturewas found lying dead on the beach at East Felpham early this morning,with his face cut about in the most dreadful manner. He had nothing onhim but his bathing-dress——"

"Stop a minute. Who was he, to begin with?"

"They haven't identified him yet. His clothes had been taken——"

"That looks more like robbery, doesn't it?" suggested Kitty.

"If it was just robbery," retorted the prim man, "why should his facehave been cut up in that way? No—the clothes were taken away, as Isaid, to prevent identification. That's what these societies always tryto do."

"Was he stabbed?" demanded the first-class passenger.

"No," said the stout man. "He wasn't. He was strangled."

"Not a characteristically Italian method of killing," observed thefirst-class passenger.

"No more it is," said the stout man. The prim man seemed a littledisconcerted.

"And if he went down there to bathe," said the thin, elderly man, "howdid he get there? Surely somebody must have missed him before now, ifhe was staying at Felpham. It's a busy spot for visitors in the holidayseason."

"No," said the stout man, "not East Felpham. You're thinking of WestFelpham, where the yacht-club is. East Felpham is one of the loneliestspots on the coast. There's no house near except a little pub allby itself at the end of a long road, and after that you have to gothrough three fields to get to the sea. There's no real road, only acart-track, but you can take a car through. I've been there."

"He came in a car," said the prim man. "They found the track of thewheels. But it had been driven away again."

"It looks as though the two men had come there together," suggestedKitty.

"I think they did," said the prim man. "The victim was probably gaggedand bound and taken along in the car to the place, and then he wastaken out and strangled and——"

"But why should they have troubled to put on his bathing-dress?" saidthe first-class passenger.

"Because," said the prim man, "as I said, they didn't want to leave anyclothes to reveal his identity."

"Quite; but why not leave him naked? A bathing-dress seems to indicatean almost excessive regard for decorum, under the circ*mstances."

"Yes, yes," said the stout man impatiently, "but you 'aven't read thepaper carefully. The two men couldn't have come there in company, andfor why? There was only one set of footprints found, and they belongedto the murdered man."

He looked round triumphantly.

"Only one set of footprints, eh?" said the first-class passengerquickly. "This looks interesting. Are you sure?"

"It says so in the paper. A single set of footprints, it says, made bybare feet, which by a careful comparison 'ave been shown to be thoseof the murdered man, lead from the position occupied by the car to theplace where the body was found. What do you make of that?"

"Why," said the first-class passenger, "that tells one quite a lot,don't you know. It gives one a sort of a bird's eye view of the place,and it tells one the time of the murder, besides castin' quite a goodbit of light on the character and circ*mstances of the murderer—ormurderers."

"How do you make that out, sir?" demanded the elderly man.

"Well, to begin with—though I've never been near the place, there isobviously a sandy beach from which one can bathe."

"That's right," said the stout man.

"There is also, I fancy, in the neighbourhood, a spur of rock runningout into the sea, quite possibly with a handy diving-pool. It must runout pretty far; at any rate, one can bathe there before it is highwater on the beach."

"I don't know how you know that, sir, but it's a fact. There's rocksand a bathing-pool, exactly as you describe, about a hundred yardsfarther along. Many's the time I've had a dip off the end of them."

"And the rocks run right back inland, where they are covered with shortgrass."

"That's right."

"The murder took place shortly before high tide, I fancy, and the bodylay just about at high-tide mark."

"Why so?"

"Well, you say there were footsteps leading right up to the body. Thatmeans that the water hadn't been up beyond the body. But there wereno other marks. Therefore the murderer's footprints must have beenwashed away by the tide. The only explanation is that the two men werestanding together just below the tide-mark. The murderer came up out ofthe sea. He attacked the other man—maybe he forced him back a littleon his own tracks—and there he killed him. Then the water came up andwashed out any marks the murderer may have left. One can imagine himsquatting there, wondering if the sea was going to come up high enough."

"Ow!" said Kitty, "you make me creep all over."

"Now, as to these marks on the face," pursued the first-classpassenger. "The murderer, according to the idea I get of the thing, wasalready in the sea when the victim came along. You see the idea?"

"I get you," said the stout man. "You think as he went in off themrocks what we was speaking of, and came up through the water, andthat's why there weren't no footprints."

"Exactly. And since the water is deep round those rocks, as you say, hewas presumably in a bathing-dress too."

"Looks like it."

"Quite so. Well, now—what was the face-slashing done with? Peopledon't usually take knives out with them when they go for a morning dip."

"That's a puzzle," said the stout man.

"Not altogether. Let's say, either the murderer had a knife with him orhe had not. If he had——"

"If he had," put in the prim man eagerly, "he must have laid wait forthe deceased on purpose. And, to my mind, that bears out my idea of adeep and cunning plot."

"Yes. But, if he was waiting there with the knife, why didn't hestab the man and have done with it? Why strangle him, when he had aperfectly good weapon there to hand? No—I think he came unprovided,and, when he saw his enemy there, he made for him with his hands in thecharacteristic British way."

"But the slashing?"

"Well, I think that when he had got his man down, dead before him,he was filled with a pretty grim sort of fury and wanted to do moredamage. He caught up something that was lying near him on the sand—itmight be a bit of old iron, or even one of those sharp shells yousometimes see about, or a bit of glass—and he went for him with thatin a desperate rage of jealousy or hatred."

"Dreadful, dreadful!" said the elderly woman.

"Of course, one can only guess in the dark, not having seen the wounds.It's quite possible that the murderer dropped his knife in the struggleand had to do the actual killing with his hands, picking the knife upafterwards. If the wounds were clean knife-wounds, that is probablywhat happened, and the murder was premeditated. But if they were rough,jagged gashes, made by an impromptu weapon, then I should say it was achance encounter, and that the murderer was either mad or——"

"Or?"

"Or had suddenly come upon somebody whom he hated very much."

"What do you think happened afterwards?"

"That's pretty clear. The murderer, having waited, as I said, to seethat all his footprints were cleaned up by the tide, waded or swam backto the rock where he had left his clothes, taking the weapon with him.The sea would wash away any blood from his bathing-dress or body. Hethen climbed out upon the rocks, walked, with bare feet, so as to leaveno tracks on any seaweed or anything, to the short grass of the shore,dressed, went along to the murdered man's car, and drove it away."

"Why did he do that?"

"Yes, why? He may have wanted to get somewhere in a hurry. Or he mayhave been afraid that if the murdered man were identified too soon itwould cast suspicion on him. Or it may have been a mixture of motives.The point is, where did he come from? How did he come to be bathing atthat remote spot, early in the morning? He didn't get there by car,or there would be a second car to be accounted for. He may have beencamping near the spot; but it would have taken him a long time tostrike camp and pack all his belongings into the car, and he might havebeen seen. I am rather inclined to think he had bicycled there, andthat he hoisted the bicycle into the back of the car and took it awaywith him."

"But, in that case, why take the car?"

"Because he had been down at East Felpham longer than he expected, andhe was afraid of being late. Either he had to get back to breakfast atsome house, where his absence would be noticed, or else he lived somedistance off, and had only just time enough for the journey home. Ithink, though, he had to be back to breakfast."

"Why?"

"Because, if it was merely a question of making up time on the road,all he had to do was to put himself and his bicycle on the trainfor part of the way. No; I fancy he was staying in a smallish hotelsomewhere. Not a large hotel, because there nobody would noticewhether he came in or not. And not, I think, in lodgings, or somebodywould have mentioned before now that they had had a lodger who wentbathing at East Felpham. Either he lives in the neighbourhood, in whichcase he should be easy to trace, or was staying with friends who havean interest in concealing his movements. Or else—which I think is morelikely—he was in a smallish hotel, where he would be missed from thebreakfast-table, but where his favourite bathing-place was not matterof common knowledge."

"That seems feasible," said the stout man.

"In any case," went on the first-class passenger, "he must have beenstaying within easy bicycling distance of East Felpham, so it shouldn'tbe too hard to trace him. And then there is the car."

"Yes. Where is the car, on your theory?" demanded the prim man, whoobviously still had hankerings after the Camorra theory.

"In a garage, waiting to be called for," said the first-class passengerpromptly.

"Where?" persisted the prim man.

"Oh! somewhere on the other side of wherever it was the murderer wasstaying. If you have a particular reason for not wanting it to be knownthat you were in a certain place at a specified time, it's not a badidea to come back from the opposite direction. I rather think I shouldlook for the car at West Felpham, and the hotel in the nearest townon the main road beyond where the two roads to East and West Felphamjoin. When you've found the car, you've found the name of the victim,naturally. As for the murderer, you will have to look for an activeman, a good swimmer and ardent bicyclist—probably not very well off,since he cannot afford to have a car—who has been taking a holidayin the neighbourhood of the Felphams, and who has a good reason fordisliking the victim, whoever he may be."

"Well, I never," said the elderly woman admiringly. "How beautiful youdo put it all together. Like Sherlock Holmes, I do declare."

"It's a very pretty theory," said the prim man, "but, all the same,you'll find it's a secret society. Mark my words. Dear me! We'rejust running in. Only twenty minutes late. I call that very good forholiday-time. Will you excuse me? My bag is just under your feet."

There was an eighth person in the compartment, who had remainedthroughout the conversation apparently buried in a newspaper. As thepassengers decanted themselves upon the platform, this man touched thefirst-class passenger upon the arm.

"Excuse me, sir," he said. "That was a very interesting suggestion ofyours. My name is Winterbottom, and I am investigating this case. Doyou mind giving me your name? I might wish to communicate with youlater on."

"Certainly," said the first-class passenger. "Always delighted to havea finger in any pie, don't you know. Here is my card. Look me up anytime you like."

Detective-Inspector Winterbottom took the card and read the name:

Lord Peter Wimsey,
110A Piccadilly.

The Evening Views vendor outside Piccadilly Tube Station arranged hisplacard with some care. It looked very well, he thought.

MAN WITH
NO FACE
IDENTIFIED

It was, in his opinion, considerably more striking than that displayedby a rival organ, which announced, unimaginatively:

BEACH MURDER
VICTIM
IDENTIFIED

A youngish gentleman in a grey suit who emerged at that moment from theCriterion Bar appeared to think so too, for he exchanged a copper forthe Evening Views, and at once plunged into its perusal with suchconcentrated interest that he bumped into a hurried man outside thestation and had to apologise.

The Evening Views, grateful to murderer and victim alike forproviding so useful a sensation in the dead days after the BankHoliday, had torn Messrs. Negretti & Zambra's rocketing thermometricalstatistics from the "banner" position which they had occupied in thelunch edition, and substituted:

Lord Peter Wimsey turned to the back page. The portrait of the victimdid not detain him long; it was one of those characterless studiophotographs which establish nothing except that the sitter has atolerable set of features. He noted that Mr. Plant had been thin ratherthan fat, commercial in appearance rather than artistic, and that thephotographer had chosen to show him serious rather than smiling. Apicture of East Felpham beach, marked with a cross where the body wasfound, seemed to arouse in him rather more than a casual interest. Hestudied it intently for some time, making little surprised noises.There was no obvious reason why he should have been surprised, forthe photograph bore out in every detail the deductions he had madein the train. There was the curved line of sand, with a long spur ofrock stretching out behind it into deep water, and running back tillit mingled with the short, dry turf. Nevertheless, he looked at it forseveral minutes with close attention, before folding the newspaper andhailing a taxi; and when he was in the taxi he unfolded the paper andlooked at it again.

"Your lordship having been kind enough," said Inspector Winterbottom,emptying his glass rather too rapidly for true connoisseurship, "tosuggest I should look you up in Town, I made bold to give you a call inpassing. Thank you, I won't say no. Well, as you've seen in the papersby now, we found that car all right."

Wimsey expressed his gratification at this result.

"And very much obliged I was to your lordship for the hint," went onthe Inspector generously, "not but what I wouldn't say but I shouldhave come to the same conclusion myself, given a little more time. And,what's more, we're on the track of the man."

"I see he's supposed to be foreign-looking. Don't say he's going toturn out to be a Camorrist after all!"

"No, my lord." The Inspector winked. "Our friend in the corner had gothis magazine stories a bit on the brain, if you ask me. And you werea bit out too, my lord, with your bicyclist idea."

"Was I? That's a blow."

"Well, my lord, these here theories sound all right, but half thetime they're too fine-spun altogether. Go for the facts—that's ourmotto in the Force—facts and motive, and you won't go far wrong."

"Oh! you've discovered the motive, then?"

The Inspector winked again.

"There's not many motives for doing a man in," said he. "Women ormoney—or women and money—it mostly comes down to one or the other.This fellow Plant went in for being a bit of a lad, you see. He kept alittle cottage down Felpham way, with a nice little skirt to furnish itand keep the love-nest warm for him—see?"

"Oh! I thought he was doing a motor-tour."

"Motor-tour your foot!" said the Inspector, with more energy thanpoliteness. "That's what the old [epithet] told 'em at the office.Handy reason, don't you see, for leaving no address behind him. No,no. There was a lady in it all right. I've seen her. A very takingpiece too, if you like 'em skinny, which I don't. I prefer 'em betterupholstered myself."

"That chair is really more comfortable with a cushion," put in Wimsey,with anxious solicitude. "Allow me."

"Thanks, my lord, thanks. I'm doing very well. It seems that thiswoman—by the way, we're speaking in confidence, you understand. Idon't want this to go further till I've got my man under lock and key."

Wimsey promised discretion.

"That's all right, my lord, that's all right. I know I can rely onyou. Well, the long and the short is, this young woman had anotherfancy man—a sort of an Italiano, whom she'd chucked for Plant, andthis same dago got wind of the business and came down to East Felphamon the Sunday night, looking for her. He's one of these professionalpartners in a Palais de Danse up Cricklewood way, and that's where thegirl comes from, too. I suppose she thought Plant was a cut above him.Anyway, down he comes, and busts in upon them Sunday night when theywere having a bit of supper—and that's when the row started."

"Didn't you know about this cottage and the goings-on there?"

"Well, you know, there's such a lot of these week-enders nowadays.We can't keep tabs on all of them, so long as they behave themselvesand don't make a disturbance. The woman's been there—so they tellme—since last June, with him coming down Saturday to Monday; but it'sa lonely spot, and the constable didn't take much notice. He came inthe evenings, so there wasn't anybody much to recognise him, exceptthe old girl who did the slops and things, and she's half-blind. Andof course, when they found him, he hadn't any face to recognise. It'dbe thought he'd just gone off in the ordinary way. I dare say the dagofellow reckoned on that. As I was saying, there was a big row, andthe dago was kicked out. He must have lain wait for Plant down by thebathing-place, and done him in."

"By strangling?"

"Well, he was strangled."

"Was his face cut up with a knife, then?"

"Well, no—I don't think it was a knife. More like a broken bottle,I should say, if you ask me. There's plenty of them come in with thetide."

"But then we're brought back to our old problem. If this Italian waslying in wait to murder Plant, why didn't he take a weapon with him,instead of trusting to the chance of his hands and a broken bottle?"

The Inspector shook his head.

"Flighty," he said. "All these foreigners are flighty. No headpiece.But there's our man and there's our motive, plain as a pikestaff. Youdon't want more."

"And where is the Italian fellow now?"

"Run away. That's pretty good proof of guilt in itself. But we'll havehim before long. That's what I've come to Town about. He can't get outof the country. I've had an all-stations call sent out to stop him.The dance-hall people were able to supply us with a photo and a gooddescription. I'm expecting a report in now any minute. In fact, I'dbest be getting along. Thank you very much for your hospitality, mylord."

"The pleasure is mine," said Wimsey, ringing the bell to have thevisitor shown out. "I have enjoyed our little chat immensely."

Sauntering into the Falstaff at twelve o'clock the following morning,Wimsey, as he had expected, found Salcombe Hardy supporting his ratherplump contours against the bar. The reporter greeted his arrival witha heartiness amounting almost to enthusiasm, and called for two largeScotches immediately. When the usual skirmish as to who should pay hadbeen honourably settled by the prompt disposal of the drinks and thestanding of two more, Wimsey pulled from his pocket the copy of lastnight's Evening Views.

"I wish you'd ask the people over at your place to get hold of a decentprint of this for me," he said, indicating the picture of East Felphambeach.

Salcome Hardy gazed limpid enquiry at him from eyes like drownedviolets.

"See here, you old sleuth," he said, "does this mean you've got atheory about the thing? I'm wanting a story badly. Must keep up theexcitement, you know. The police don't seem to have got any furthersince last night."

"No; I'm interested in this from another point of view altogether. Idid have a theory—of sorts—but it seems it's all wrong. Bally oldHomer nodding, I suppose. But I'd like a copy of the thing."

"I'll get Warren to get you one when we come back. I'm just taking himdown with me to Crichton's. We're going to have a look at a picture. Isay, I wish you'd come too. Tell me what to say about the damned thing."

"Good God! I don't know anything about commercial art."

"'Tisn't commercial art. It's supposed to be a portrait of thisblighter Plant. Done by one of the chaps in his studio or something.Kid who told me about it says it's clever. I don't know. Don't supposeshe knows, either. You go in for being artistic, don't you?"

"I wish you wouldn't use such filthy expressions, Sally. Artistic! Whois this girl?"

"Typist in the copy department."

"Oh, Sally!"

"Nothing of that sort. I've never met her. Name's Gladys Twitterton.I'm sure that's beastly enough to put anybody off. Rang us up lastnight and told us there was a bloke there who'd done old Plant in oilsand was it any use to us? Drummer thought it might be worth lookinginto. Make a change from that everlasting syndicated photograph."

"I see. If you haven't got an exclusive story, an exclusive picture'sbetter than nothing. The girl seems to have her wits about her. Friendof the artist's?"

"No—said he'd probably be frightfully annoyed at her having told me.But I can wangle that. Only I wish you'd come and have a look at it.Tell me whether I ought to say it's an unknown masterpiece or merely astriking likeness."

"How the devil can I say if it's a striking likeness of a bloke I'venever seen?"

"I'll say it's that, in any case. But I want to know if it's wellpainted."

"Curse it, Sally, what's it matter whether it is or not? I've gotother things to do. Who's the artist, by the way? Anybody one's everheard of?"

"Dunno. I've got the name here somewhere." Sally rooted in hiship-pocket and produced a mass of dirty correspondence, its anglesblunted by constant attrition. "Some comic name like Buggle orSnagtooth—wait a bit—here it is. Crowder. Thomas Crowder. I knew itwas something out of the way."

"Singularly like Buggle or Snagtooth. All right, Sally, I'll make amartyr of myself. Lead me to it."

"We'll have another quick one. Here's Warren. This is Lord PeterWimsey. This is on me."

"On me," corrected the photographer, a jaded young man with adisillusioned manner. "Three large White Labels, please. Well, here'sall the best. Are you fit, Sally? Because we'd better make tracks. I'vegot to be up at Golders Green by two for the funeral."

Mr. Crowder of Crichton's appeared to have had the news broken to himalready by Miss Twitterton, for he received the embassy in a spirit ofgloomy acquiescence.

"The directors won't like it," he said, "but they've had to put upwith such a lot that I suppose one irregularity more or less won'tgive 'em apoplexy." He had a small, anxious, yellow face like amonkey. Wimsey put him down as being in his late thirties. He noticedhis fine, capable hands, one of which was disfigured by a strip ofsticking-plaster.

"Damaged yourself?" said Wimsey pleasantly, as they made their wayupstairs to the studio. "Mustn't make a practice of that, what? Anartist's hands are his livelihood—except, of course, for ArmlessWonders and people of that kind! Awkward job, painting with your toes."

"Oh, it's nothing much," said Crowder, "but it's best to keep the paintout of surface scratches. There's such a thing as lead-poisoning. Well,here's this dud portrait, such as it is. I don't mind telling you thatit didn't please the sitter. In fact, he wouldn't have it at any price."

"Not flattering enough?" asked Hardy.

"As you say." The painter pulled out a four by three canvas from itshiding-place behind a stack of poster cartoons, and heaved it up on tothe easel.

"Oh!" said Hardy, a little surprised. Not that there was any reasonfor surprise as far as the painting itself was concerned. It was astraight-forward handling enough; the skill and originality of thebrush-work being of the kind that interests the painter withoutshocking the ignorant.

"Oh!" said Hardy. "Was he really like that?"

He moved closer to the canvas, peering into it as he might havepeered into the face of the living man, hoping to get something outof him. Under this microscopic scrutiny, the portrait, as is the wayof portraits, dislimned, and became no more than a conglomeration ofpainted spots and streaks. He made the discovery that, to the painter'seye, the human face is full of green and purple patches.

He moved back again, and altered the form of his question:

"So that's what he was like, was he?"

He pulled out the photograph of Plant from his pocket, and compared itwith the portrait. The portrait seemed to sneer at his surprise.

"Of course, they touch these things up at these fashionablephotographers," he said. "Anyway, that's not my business. This thingwill make a jolly good eye-catcher, don't you think so, Wimsey? Wonderif they'd give us a two-column spread on the front page? Well, Warren,you'd better get down to it."

The photographer, bleakly unmoved by artistic or journalisticconsiderations, took silent charge of the canvas, mentally resolvingit into a question of pan-chromatic plates and coloured screens.Crowder gave him a hand in shifting the easel into a better light. Twoor three people from other departments, passing through the studio ontheir lawful occasions, stopped, and lingered in the neighbourhood ofthe disturbance, as though it were a street accident. A melancholy,grey-haired man, temporary head of the studio, vice Coreggio Plant,deceased, took Crowder aside, with a muttered apology, to give him someinstructions about adapting a whole quad to an eleven-inch treble.Hardy turned to Lord Peter.

"It's damned ugly," he said. "Is it good?"

"Brilliant," said Wimsey. "You can go all out. Say what you like aboutit."

"Oh, splendid! Could we discover one of our neglected British masters?"

"Yes; why not? You'll probably make the man the fashion and ruin him asan artist, but that's his pigeon."

"But, I say—do you think it's a good likeness? He's made him look amost sinister sort of fellow. After all, Plant thought it was so bad hewouldn't have it."

"The more fool he. Ever heard of the portrait of a certain statesmanthat was so revealing of his inner emptiness that he hurriedly boughtit up and hid it to prevent people like you from getting hold of it?"

Crowder came back.

"I say," said Wimsey, "whom does that picture belong to? You? Or theheirs of the deceased, or what?"

"I suppose it's back on my hands," said the painter. "Plant—well, hemore or less commissioned it, you see, but——"

"How more or less?"

"Well, he kept on hinting, don't you know, that he would like me to dohim, and, as he was my boss, I thought I'd better. No price actuallymentioned. When he saw it, he didn't like it, and told me to alter it."

"But you didn't."

"Oh—well, I put it aside and said I'd see what I could do with it. Ithought he'd perhaps forget about it."

"I see. Then presumably it's yours to dispose of."

"I should think so. Why?"

"You have a very individual technique, haven't you?" pursued Wimsey."Do you exhibit much?"

"Here and there. I've never had a show in London."

"I fancy I once saw a couple of small sea-scapes of yours somewhere.Manchester, was it? or Liverpool? I wasn't sure of your name, but Irecognised the technique immediately."

"I dare say. I did send a few things to Manchester about two years ago."

"Yes—I felt sure I couldn't be mistaken. I want to buy the portrait.Here's my card, by the way. I'm not a journalist; I collect things."

Crowder looked from the card to Wimsey and from Wimsey to the card, alittle reluctantly.

"If you want to exhibit it, of course," said Lord Peter, "I should bedelighted to leave it with you as long as you liked."

"Oh, it's not that," said Crowder. "The fact is, I'm not altogetherkeen on the thing. I should like to—that is to say, it's not reallyfinished."

"My dear man, it's a bally masterpiece."

"Oh, the painting's all right. But it's not altogether satisfactory asa likeness."

"What the devil does the likeness matter? I don't know what the latePlant looked like and I don't care. As I look at the thing it's a damnfine bit of brush-work, and if you tinker about with it you'll spoilit. You know that as well as I do. What's biting you? It isn't theprice, is it? You know I shan't boggle about that. I can afford mymodest pleasures, even in these thin and piping times. You don't wantme to have it? Come now—what's the real reason?"

"There's no reason at all why you shouldn't have it if you really wantit, I suppose," said the painter, still a little sullenly. "If it'sreally the painting that interests you."

"What do you suppose it is? The notoriety? I can have all I want ofthat commodity, you know, for the asking—or even without asking.Well, anyhow, think it over, and when you've decided, send me a lineand name your price."

Crowder nodded without speaking, and the photographer having by thistime finished his job, the party took their leave.

As they left the building, they became involved in the stream ofCrichton's staff going out to lunch. A girl, who seemed to have beenloitering in a semi-intentional way in the lower hall, caught them asthe lift descended.

"Are you the Evening Views people? Did you get your picture allright?"

"Miss Twitterton?" said Hardy interrogatively. "Yes, rather—thank youso much for giving us the tip. You'll see it on the front page thisevening."

"Oh! that's splendid! I'm frightfully thrilled. It has made anexcitement here—all this business. Do they know anything yet about whomurdered Mr. Plant? Or am I being horribly indiscreet?"

"We're expecting news of an arrest any minute now," said Hardy. "As amatter of fact, I shall have to buzz back to the office as fast as Ican, to sit with one ear glued to the telephone. You will excuse me,won't you? And, look here—will you let me come round another day, whenthings aren't so busy, and take you out to lunch?"

"Of course. I should love to." Miss Twitterton giggled. "I do so wantto hear about all the murder cases."

"Then here's the man to tell you about them, Miss Twitterton," saidHardy, with mischief in his eye. "Allow me to introduce Lord PeterWimsey."

Miss Twitterton offered her hand in an ecstasy of excitement whichalmost robbed her of speech.

"How do you do?" said Wimsey. "As this blighter is in such a hurry toget back to his gossip-shop, what do you say to having a spot of lunchwith me?"

"Well, really——" began Miss Twitterton.

"He's all right," said Hardy; "he won't lure you into any gilded densof infamy. If you look at him, you will see he has a kind, innocentface."

"I'm sure I never thought of such a thing," said Miss Twitterton. "Butyou know—really—I've only got my old things on. It's no good wearinganything decent in this dusty old place."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Wimsey. "You couldn't possibly look nicer. Itisn't the frock that matters—it's the person who wears it. That'sall right, then. See you later, Sally! Taxi! Where shall we go? Whattime do you have to be back, by the way?"

"Two o'clock," said Miss Twitterton regretfully.

"Then we'll make the Savoy do," said Wimsey; "it's reasonably handy."

Miss Twitterton hopped into the waiting taxi with a little squeak ofa*gitation.

"Did you see Mr. Crichton?" she said. "He went by just as we weretalking. However, I dare say he doesn't really know me by sight. Ihope not—or he'll think I'm getting too grand to need a salary." Sherooted in her hand-bag. "I'm sure my face is getting all shiny withexcitement. What a silly taxi. It hasn't got a mirror—and I've bustmine."

Wimsey solemnly produced a small looking-glass from his pocket.

"How wonderfully competent of you!" exclaimed Miss Twitterton. "I'mafraid, Lord Peter, you are used to taking girls about."

"Moderately so," said Wimsey. He did not think it necessary to mentionthat the last time he had used that mirror it had been to examine theback teeth of a murdered man.

"Of course," said Miss Twitterton, "they had to say he was popular withhis colleagues. Haven't you noticed that murdered people are alwayswell dressed and popular?"

"They have to be," said Wimsey. "It makes it more mysterious andpathetic. Just as girls who disappear are always bright and home-lovingand have no men friends."

"Silly, isn't it?" said Miss Twitterton, with her mouth full of roastduck and green peas. "I should think everybody was only too glad toget rid of Plant—nasty, rude creature. So mean, too, always takingcredit for other people's work. All those poor things in the studio,with all the spirit squashed out of them. I always say, Lord Peter, youcan tell if a head of a department's fitted for his job by noticingthe atmosphere of the place as you go into it. Take the copy-room,now. We're all as cheerful and friendly as you like, though I must saythe language that goes on there is something awful, but these writingfellows are like that, and they don't mean anything by it. But then,Mr. Ormerod is a real gentleman—that's our copy-chief, you know—andhe makes them all take an interest in the work, for all they grumbleabout the cheese-bills and the department-store bilge they have to turnout. But it's quite different in the studio. A sort of dead-and-alivefeeling about it, if you understand what I mean. We girls notice thingslike that more than some of the high-up people think. Of course, I'mvery sensitive to these feelings—almost psychic, I've been told."

Lord Peter said there was nobody like a woman for sizing up characterat a glance. Women, he thought, were remarkably intuitive.

"That's a fact," said Miss Twitterton. "I've often said, if I couldhave a few frank words with Mr. Crichton, I could tell him a thing ortwo. There are wheels within wheels beneath the surface of a place likethis that these brass-hats have no idea of."

Lord Peter said he felt sure of it.

"The way Mr. Plant treated people he thought were beneath him," went onMiss Twitterton, "I'm sure it was enough to make your blood boil. I'msure, if Mr. Ormerod sent me with a message to him, I was glad to getout of the room again. Humiliating, it was, the way he'd speak to you.I don't care if he's dead or not; being dead doesn't make a person'spast behaviour any better, Lord Peter. It wasn't so much the rudethings he said. There's Mr. Birkett, for example; he's rude enough,but nobody minds him. He's just like a big, blundering puppy—rather alamb, really. It was Mr. Plant's nasty sneering way we all hated so.And he was always running people down."

"How about this portrait?" asked Wimsey. "Was it like him at all?"

"It was a lot too like him," said Miss Twitterton emphatically. "That'swhy he hated it so. He didn't like Crowder, either. But, of course, heknew he could paint, and he made him do it, because he thought he'd begetting a valuable thing cheap. And Crowder couldn't very well refuse,or Plant would have got him sacked."

"I shouldn't have thought that would have mattered much to a man ofCrowder's ability."

"Poor Mr. Crowder! I don't think he's ever had much luck. Good artistsdon't always seem able to sell their pictures. And I know he wanted toget married—otherwise he'd never have taken up this commercial work.He's told me a good bit about himself. I don't know why—but I'm one ofthe people men seem to tell things to."

Lord Peter filled Miss Twitterton's glass.

"Oh, please! No, really! Not a drop more! I'm talking a lot too muchas it is. I don't know what Mr. Ormerod will say when I go in to takehis letters. I shall be writing down all kinds of funny things. Ooh! Ireally must be getting back. Just look at the time!"

"It's not really late. Have a black coffee—just as a corrective."Wimsey smiled. "You haven't been talking at all too much. I've enjoyedyour picture of office life enormously. You have a very vivid way ofputting things, you know. I see now why Mr. Plant was not altogether apopular character."

"Not in the office, anyway—whatever he may have been elsewhere," saidMiss Twitterton darkly.

"Oh?"

"Oh! he was a one," said Miss Twitterton. "He certainly was a one. Somefriends of mine met him one evening up in the West End, and they cameback with some nice stories. It was quite a joke in the office—oldPlant and his rosebuds, you know. Mr. Cowley—he's the Cowley, youknow, who rides in the motor-cycle races—he always said he knewwhat to think of Mr. Plant and his motor-tours. That time Mr. Plantpretended he'd gone touring in Wales, Mr. Cowley was asking him aboutthe roads, and he didn't know a thing about them. Because Mr. Cowleyreally had been touring there, and he knew quite well Mr. Plant hadn'tbeen where he said he had; and, as a matter of fact, Mr. Cowley knewhe'd been staying the whole time in a hotel at Aberystwyth, in veryattractive company."

Miss Twitterton finished her coffee and slapped the cup down defiantly.

"And now I really must run away, or I shall be most dreadfully late.And thank you ever so much."

"Hullo!" said Inspector Winterbottom, "you've bought that portrait,then?"

"Yes," said Wimsey. "It's a fine bit of work." He gazed thoughtfully atthe canvas. "Sit down, inspector; I want to tell you a story."

"And I want to tell you a story," replied the inspector.

"Let's have yours first," said Wimsey, with an air of flatteringeagerness.

"No, no, my lord. You take precedence. Go ahead."

He snuggled down with a chuckle into his arm-chair.

"Well!" said Wimsey. "Mine's a sort of a fairy-story. And, mind you, Ihaven't verified it."

"Go ahead, my lord, go ahead."

"Once upon a time——" said Wimsey, sighing.

"That's the good old-fashioned way to begin a fairy-story," saidInspector Winterbottom.

"Once upon a time," repeated Wimsey, "there was a painter. He was agood painter, but the bad fairy of Financial Success had not been askedto his christening—what?"

"That's often the way with painters," agreed the inspector.

"So he had to take up a job as a commercial artist, because nobodywould buy his pictures and, like so many people in fairy-tales, hewanted to marry a goose-girl."

"There's many people want to do the same," said the inspector.

"The head of his department," went on Wimsey, "was a man with a mean,sneering soul. He wasn't even really good at his job, but he had beenpushed into authority during the war, when better men went to theFront. Mind you, I'm rather sorry for the man. He suffered from aninferiority complex"—the inspector snorted—"and he thought the onlyway to keep his end up was to keep other people's end down. So hebecame a little tin tyrant and a bully. He took all the credit for thework of the men under his charge, and he sneered and harassed them tillthey got inferiority complexes even worse than his own."

"I've known that sort," said the inspector, "and the marvel to me ishow they get away with it."

"Just so," said Wimsey. "Well, I dare say this man would have gone ongetting away with it all right, if he hadn't thought of getting thispainter to paint his portrait."

"Damn silly thing to do," said the inspector. "It was only making thepainter-fellow conceited with himself."

"True. But, you see, this tin tyrant person had a fascinating femalein tow, and he wanted the portrait for the lady. He thought that, bymaking the painter do it, he would get a good portrait at starvationprice. But unhappily he'd forgotten that, however much an artist willput up with in the ordinary way, he is bound to be sincere with hisart. That's the one thing a genuine artist won't muck about with."

"I dare say," said the inspector. "I don't know much about artists."

"Well, you can take it from me. So the painter painted the portrait ashe saw it, and he put the man's whole creeping, sneering, paltry soulon the canvas for everybody to see."

Inspector Winterbottom stared at the portrait, and the portrait sneeredback at him.

"It's not what you'd call a flattering picture, certainly," he admitted.

"Now, when a painter paints a portrait of anybody," went on Wimsey,"that person's face is never the same to him again. It's like—whatshall I say? Well, it's like the way a gunner, say, looks at alandscape where he happens to be posted. He doesn't see it as alandscape. He doesn't see it as a thing of magic beauty, full ofsweeping lines and lovely colour. He sees it as so much cover, so manylandmarks to aim by, so many gun-emplacements. And when the war is overand he goes back to it, he will still see it as cover and landmarks andgun-emplacements. It isn't a landscape any more. It's a war map."

"I know that," said Inspector Winterbottom. "I was a gunner myself."

"A painter gets just the same feeling of deadly familiarity with everyline of a face he's once painted," pursued Wimsey. "And, if it's aface he hates, he hates it with a new and more irritable hatred. It'slike a defective barrel-organ, everlastingly grinding out the same oldmaddening tune, and making the same damned awful wrong note every timethe barrel goes round."

"Lord! how you can talk!" ejacul*ted the inspector.

"That was the way the painter felt about this man's hateful face. Allday and every day he had to see it. He couldn't get away because he wastied to his job, you see."

"He ought to have cut loose," said the inspector. "It's no good goingon like that, trying to work with uncongenial people."

"Well, anyway, he said to himself, he could escape for a bit during hisholidays. There was a beautiful little quiet spot he knew on the WestCoast, where nobody ever came. He'd been there before and painted it.Oh! by the way, that reminds me—I've got another picture to show you."

He went to a bureau and extracted a small panel in oils from a drawer.

"I saw that two years ago at a show in Manchester, and I happened toremember the name of the dealer who bought it."

Inspector Winterbottom gaped at the panel.

"But that's East Felpham!" he exclaimed.

"Yes. It's only signed T.C., but the technique is rather unmistakable,don't you think?"

The inspector knew little about technique, but initials he understood.He looked from the portrait to the panel and back at Lord Peter.

"The painter——"

"Crowder?"

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather go on calling him the painter.He packed up his traps on his push-bike carrier, and took his tormentednerves down to this beloved and secret spot for a quiet week-end. Hestayed at a quiet little hotel in the neighbourhood, and each morninghe cycled off to this lovely little beach to bathe. He never toldanybody at the hotel where he went, because it was his place, and hedidn't want other people to find it out."

Inspector Winterbottom set the panel down on the table, and helpedhimself to whisky.

"One morning—it happened to be the Monday morning"—Wimsey's voicebecame slower and more reluctant—"he went down as usual. The tide wasnot yet fully in, but he ran out over the rocks to where he knew therewas a deep bathing-pool. He plunged in and swam about, and let thesmall noise of his jangling troubles be swallowed up in the innumerablelaughter of the sea."

"Eh?"

"[Greek: kumatôn anêrithmon gelasma]—quotation from the classics.Some people say it means the dimpled surface of the waves in thesunlight—but how could Prometheus, bound upon his rock, have seen it?Surely it was the chuckle of the incoming tide among the stones thatcame up to his ears on the lonely peak where the vulture fretted at hisheart. I remember arguing about it with old Philpotts in class, andgetting rapped over the knuckles for contradicting him. I didn't knowat the time that he was engaged in producing a translation on his ownaccount, or doubtless I should have contradicted him more rudely andbeen told to take my trousers down. Dear old Philpotts!"

"I don't know anything about that," said the inspector.

"I beg your pardon. Shocking way I have of wandering. Thepainter—well! he swam round the end of the rocks, for the tide wasnearly in by that time; and, as he came up from the sea, he saw a manstanding on the beach—that beloved beach, remember, which he thoughtwas his own sacred haven of peace. He came wading towards it, cursingthe Bank Holiday rabble who must needs swarm about everywhere withtheir cigarette-packets and their kodaks and their gramophones—andthen he saw that it was a face he knew. He knew every hated line in it,on that clear sunny morning. And, early as it was, the heat was comingup over the sea like a haze."

"It was a hot week-end," said the Inspector.

"And then the man hailed him, in his smug, mincing voice. 'Hullo!' hesaid, 'you here? How did you find my little bathing-place?' And thatwas too much for the painter. He felt as if his last sanctuary hadbeen invaded. He leapt at the lean throat—it's rather a stringy one,you may notice, with a prominent Adam's apple—an irritating throat.The water chuckled round their feet as they swayed to and fro. He felthis thumbs sink into the flesh he had painted. He saw, and laughed tosee, the hateful familiarity of the features change and swell into anunrecognisable purple. He watched the sunken eyes bulge out and thethin mouth distort itself as the blackened tongue thrust through it—Iam not unnerving you, I hope?"

The inspector laughed.

"Not a bit. It's wonderful, the way you describe things. You ought towrite a book."

replied his lordship negligently, and went on without further comment.

"The painter throttled him. He flung him back on the sand. He looked athim, and his heart crowed within him. He stretched out his hand, andfound a broken bottle, with a good jagged edge. He went to work witha will, stamping and tearing away every trace of the face he knew andloathed. He blotted it out and destroyed it utterly.

"He sat beside the thing he had made. He began to be frightened. Theyhad staggered back beyond the edge of the water, and there were themarks of his feet on the sand. He had blood on his face and on hisbathing-suit, and he had cut his hand with the bottle. But the blessedsea was still coming in. He watched it pass over the bloodstains andthe footprints and wipe the story of his madness away. He rememberedthat this man had gone from his place, leaving no address behind him.He went back, step by step, into the water, and, as it came up to hisbreast, he saw the red stains smoke away like a faint mist in thebrown-blueness of the tide. He went—wading and swimming and plunginghis face and arms deep in the water, looking back from time to timeto see what he had left behind him. I think that when he got back tothe point and drew himself out, clean and cool, upon the rocks, heremembered that he ought to have taken the body back with him and letthe tide carry it away, but it was too late. He was clean, and he couldnot bear to go back for the thing. Besides, he was late, and they wouldwonder at the hotel if he was not back in time for breakfast. He ranlightly over the bare rocks and the grass that showed no footprint. Hedressed himself, taking care to leave no trace of his presence. He tookthe car, which would have told a story. He put his bicycle in the backseat, under the rugs, and he went—but you know as well as I do wherehe went."

Lord Peter got up with an impatient movement, and went over to thepicture, rubbing his thumb meditatively over the texture of thepainting.

"You may say, if he hated the face so much, why didn't he destroy thepicture? He couldn't. It was the best thing he'd ever done. He took ahundred guineas for it. It was cheap at a hundred guineas. But then—Ithink he was afraid to refuse me. My name is rather well known. It wasa sort of blackmail, I suppose. But I wanted that picture."

Inspector Winterbottom laughed again.

"Did you take any steps, my lord, to find out if Crowder has reallybeen staying at East Felpham?"

"No." Wimsey swung round abruptly. "I have taken no steps at all.That's your business. I have told you the story, and, on my soul, I'drather have stood by and said nothing."

"You needn't worry." The inspector laughed for the third time. "It's agood story, my lord, and you told it well. But you're right when yousay it's a fairy-story. We've found this Italian fellow—Franceso, hecalled himself, and he's the man all right."

"How do you know? Has he confessed?"

"Practically. He's dead. Killed himself. He left a letter to the woman,begging her forgiveness, and saying that when he saw her with Plant hefelt murder come into his heart. 'I have revenged myself,' he says, 'onhim who dared to love you.' I suppose he got the wind up when he sawwe were after him—I wish these newspapers wouldn't be always puttingthese criminals on their guard—so he did away with himself to cheatthe gallows. I may say it's been a disappointment to me."

"It must have been," said Wimsey. "Very unsatisfactory, of course. ButI'm glad my story turned out to be only a fairy-tale after all. You'renot going?"

"Got to get back to my duty," said the inspector, heaving himself tohis feet. "Very pleased to have met you, my lord. And I mean what Isay—you ought to take to literature."

Wimsey remained after he had gone, still looking at the portrait.

"'What is Truth?' said jesting Pilate. No wonder, since it is socompletely unbelievable.... I could prove it ... if I liked ... butthe man had a villainous face, and there are few good painters in theworld."

THE ADVENTUROUS EXPLOIT OF THE CAVE OF ALI BABA

In the front room of a grim and narrow house in Lambeth a man sateating kippers and glancing through the Morning Post. He was smallishand spare, with brown hair rather too regularly waved and a strong,brown beard, cut to a point. His double-breasted suit of navy-blue andhis socks, tie, and handkerchief, all scrupulously matched, were atrifle more point-device than the best taste approves, and his bootswere slightly too bright a brown. He did not look a gentleman, not evena gentleman's gentleman, yet there was something about his appearancewhich suggested that he was accustomed to the manner of life in goodfamilies. The breakfast-table, which he had set with his own hands, wasarrayed with the attention to detail which is exacted of good-classservants. His action, as he walked over to a little side-table andcarved himself a plate of ham, was the action of a superior butler; yethe was not old enough to be a retired butler; a footman, perhaps, whohad come into a legacy.

He finished the ham with good appetite, and, as he sipped his coffee,read through attentively a paragraph which he had already noticed andput aside for consideration.

The man gave a sigh of relief.

"No doubt about that," he said aloud. "People don't give their moneyaway if they're going to come back again. The blighter's dead andburied right enough. I'm free."

He finished his coffee, cleared the table, and washed up the crockery,took his bowler hat from the hall-stand, and went out.

A bus took him to Bermondsey. He alighted, and plunged into a networkof gloomy streets, arriving after a quarter of an hour's walk at aseedy-looking public-house in a low quarter. He entered and called fora double whisky.

The house had only just opened, but a number of customers, who hadapparently been waiting on the doorstep for this desirable event, werealready clustered about the bar. The man who might have been a footmanreached for his glass, and in doing so jostled the elbow of a flashperson in a check suit and regrettable tie.

"Here!" expostulated the flash person, "what d'yer mean by it? We don'twant your sort here. Get out!"

He emphasised his remarks with a few highly coloured words, and aviolent push in the chest.

"Bar's free to everybody, isn't it?" said the other, returning theshove with interest.

"Now then!" said the barmaid, "none o' that. The gentleman didn't do itintentional, Mr. Jukes."

"Didn't he?" said Mr. Jukes. "Well, I did."

"And you ought to be ashamed of yourself," retorted the young lady,with a toss of the head. "I'll have no quarrelling in my bar—not thistime in the morning."

"It was quite an accident," said the man from Lambeth. "I'm not one tomake a disturbance, having always been used to the best houses. But ifany gentleman wants to make trouble——"

"All right, all right," said Mr. Jukes, more pacifically. "I'm not keento give you a new face. Not but what any alteration wouldn't be for thebetter. Mind your manners another time, that's all. What'll you have?"

"No, no," protested the other, "this one must be on me. Sorry I pushedyou. I didn't mean it. But I didn't like to be taken up so short."

"Say no more about it," said Mr. Jukes generously. "I'm standing this.Another double whisky, miss, and one of the usual. Come over here wherethere isn't so much of a crowd, or you'll be getting yourself intotrouble again."

He led the way to a small table in the corner of the room.

"That's all right," said Mr. Jukes. "Very nicely done. I don't thinkthere's any danger here, but you can't be too careful. Now, what aboutit, Rogers? Have you made up your mind to come in with us?"

"Yes," said Rogers, with a glance over his shoulder, "yes, I have.That is, mind you, if everything seems all right. I'm not looking fortrouble, and I don't want to get let in for any dangerous games. Idon't mind giving you information, but it's understood as I take noactive part in whatever goes on. Is that straight?"

"You wouldn't be allowed to take an active part if you wanted to,"said Mr. Jukes. "Why, you poor fish, Number One wouldn't have anybodybut experts on his jobs. All you have to do is to let us know wherethe stuff is and how to get it. The Society does the rest. It's someorganisation, I can tell you. You won't even know who's doing it, orhow it's done. You won't know anybody, and nobody will know you—exceptNumber One, of course. He knows everybody."

"And you," said Rogers.

"And me, of course. But I shall be transferred to another district. Weshan't meet again after to-day, except at the general meetings, andthen we shall all be masked."

"Go on!" said Rogers incredulously.

"Fact. You'll be taken to Number One—he'll see you, but you won't seehim. Then, if he thinks you're any good, you'll be put on the roll,and after that you'll be told where to make your reports to. There isa divisional meeting called once a fortnight, and every three monthsthere's a general meeting and share-out. Each member is called up bynumber and has his whack handed over to him. That's all."

"Well, but suppose two members are put on the same job together?"

"If it's a daylight job, they'll be so disguised their mothers wouldn'tknow 'em. But it's mostly night work."

"I see. But, look here—what's to prevent somebody following me homeand giving me away to the police?"

"Nothing, of course. Only I wouldn't advise him to try it, that's all.The last man who had that bright idea was fished out of the river downRotherhithe way, before he had time to get his precious report in.Number One knows everybody, you see."

"Oh!—and who is this Number One?"

"There's lots of people would give a good bit to know that."

"Does nobody know?"

"Nobody. He's a fair marvel, is Number One. He's a gentleman, I cantell you that, and a pretty high-up one, from his ways. And he's goteyes all round his head. And he's got an arm as long as from here toAustralia. But nobody knows anything about him, unless it's NumberTwo, and I'm not even sure about her."

"There are women in it, then?"

"You can bet your boots there are. You can't do a job without 'emnowadays. But that needn't worry you. The women are safe enough. Theydon't want to come to a sticky end, no more than you and me.

"But, look here, Jukes—how about the money? It's a big risk to take.Is it worth it?"

"Worth it?" Jukes leant across the little marble-topped table andwhispered.

"Coo!" gasped Rogers. "And how much of that would I get, now?"

"You'd share and share alike with the rest, whether you'd been inthat particular job or not. There's fifty members, and you'd getone-fiftieth, same as Number One and same as me."

"Really? No kidding?"

"See that wet, see that dry!" Jukes laughed. "Say, can you beat it?There's never been anything like it. It's the biggest thing ever beenknown. He's a great man, is Number One."

"And do you pull off many jobs?"

"Many? Listen. You remember the Carruthers necklace, and the GorlestonBank robbery? And the Faversham burglary? And the big Rubens thatdisappeared from the National Gallery? And the Frensham pearls? Alldone by the Society. And never one of them cleared up."

Rogers licked his lips.

"But now, look here," he said cautiously. "Supposing I was a spy, asyou might say, and supposing I was to go straight off and tell thepolice about what you've been saying?"

"Ah!" said Jukes, "suppose you did, eh? Well, supposing something nastydidn't happen to you on the way there—which I wouldn't answer for,mind——"

"Do you mean to say you've got me watched?"

"You can bet your sweet life we have. Yes. Well, supposing nothinghappened on the way there, and you was to bring the slops to this pub,looking for yours truly——"

"Yes?"

"You wouldn't find me, that's all. I should have gone to Number Five."

"Who's Number Five?"

"Ah! I don't know. But he's the man that makes you a new face whileyou wait. Plastic surgery, they call it. And new finger-prints. Neweverything. We go in for up-to-date methods in our show."

Rogers whistled.

"Well, how about it?" asked Jukes, eyeing his acquaintance over the rimof his tumbler.

"Look here—you've told me a lot of things. Shall I be safe if I say'no'?"

"Oh, yes—if you behave yourself and don't make trouble for us."

"H'm, I see. And if I say 'yes'?"

"Then you'll be a rich man in less than no time, with money in yourpocket to live like a gentleman. And nothing to do for it, except totell us what you know about the houses you've been to when you were inservice. It's money for jam if you act straight by the Society."

Rogers was silent, thinking it over.

"I'll do it!" he said at last.

"Good for you. Miss! The same again, please. Here's to it, Rogers!I knew you were one of the right sort the minute I set eyes on you.Here's to money for jam, and take care of Number One! Talking of NumberOne, you'd better come round and see him to-night. No time like thepresent."

"Right you are. Where'll I come to? Here?"

"Nix. No more of this little pub for us. It's a pity, because it's niceand comfortable, but it can't be helped. Now, what you've got to do isthis. At ten o'clock to-night exactly, you walk north across LambethBridge." (Rogers winced at this intimation that his abode was known),"and you'll see a yellow taxi standing there, with the driver doingsomething to his engine. You'll say to him, 'Is your bus fit to go?'and he'll say, 'Depends where you want to go to.' And you'll say, 'Takeme to Number One, London.' There's a shop called that, by the way,but he won't take you there. You won't know where he is taking you,because the taxi-windows will be covered up, but you mustn't mind that.It's the rule for the first visit. Afterwards, when you're regularlyone of us, you'll be told the name of the place. And when you getthere, do as you're told and speak the truth, because, if you don't,Number One will deal with you. See?"

"I see."

"Are you game? You're not afraid?"

"Of course I'm not afraid."

"Good man! Well, we'd better be moving now. And I'll say good-bye,because we shan't see each other again. Good-bye—and good luck!"

"Good-bye."

They passed through the swing-doors, and out into the mean and dirtystreet.

The two years subsequent to the enrolment of the ex-footman Rogers in acrook society were marked by a number of startling and successful raidson the houses of distinguished people. There was the theft of the greatdiamond tiara from the Dowager duch*ess of Denver; the burglary at theflat formerly occupied by the late Lord Peter Wimsey, resulting in thedisappearance of £7,000 worth of silver and gold plate; the burglaryat the country mansion of Theodore Winthrop, the millionaire—which,incidentally, exposed that thriving gentleman as a confirmed Societyblackmailer and caused a reverberating scandal in Mayfair; and thesnatching of the famous eight-string necklace of pearls from theMarchioness of Dinglewood during the singing of the Jewel Song inFaust at Covent Garden. It is true that the pearls turned out to beimitation, the original string having been pawned by the noble ladyunder circ*mstances highly painful to the Marquis, but the coup wasnevertheless a sensational one.

On a Saturday afternoon in January, Rogers was sitting in hisroom in Lambeth, when a slight noise at the front door caught hisear. He sprang up almost before it had ceased, dashed through thesmall hall-way, and flung the door open. The street was deserted.Nevertheless, as he turned back to the sitting-room, he saw anenvelope lying on the hat-stand. It was addressed briefly to "NumberTwenty-one." Accustomed by this time to the somewhat dramatic methodsused by the Society to deliver its correspondence, he merely shruggedhis shoulders, and opened the note.

It was written in cipher, and, when transcribed, ran thus:

"Number Twenty-one,—An Extraordinary General Meeting will be heldto-night at the house of Number One at 11.30. You will be absent atyour peril. The word is Finality."

Rogers stood for a little time considering this. Then he made his wayto a room at the back of the house, in which there was a tall safe,built into the wall. He manipulated the combination and walked intothe safe, which ran back for some distance, forming, indeed, a smallstrong-room. He pulled out a drawer marked "Correspondence," and addedthe paper he had just received to the contents.

After a few moments he emerged, re-set the lock to a new combination,and returned to the sitting-room.

"Finality," he said. "Yes—I think so." He stretched out his hand tothe telephone—then appeared to alter his mind.

He went upstairs to an attic, and thence climbed into a loft closeunder the roof. Crawling among the rafters, he made his way into thefarthest corner; then carefully pressed a knot on the timber-work. Aconcealed trap-door swung open. He crept through it, and found himselfin the corresponding loft of the next house. A soft cooing noisegreeted him as he entered. Under the skylight stood three cages, eachcontaining a carrier pigeon.

He glanced cautiously out of the skylight, which looked out upon ahigh blank wall at the back of some factory or other. There was nobodyin the dim little courtyard, and no window within sight. He drew hishead in again, and, taking a small fragment of thin paper from hispocket-book, wrote a few letters and numbers upon it. Going to thenearest cage, he took out the pigeon and attached the message to itswing. Then he carefully set the bird on the window-ledge. It hesitateda moment, shifted its pink feet a few times, lifted its wings, andwas gone. He saw it tower up into the already darkening sky over thefactory roof and vanish into the distance.

He glanced at his watch and returned downstairs. An hour later hereleased the second pigeon, and in another hour the third. Then he satdown to wait.

At half-past nine he went up to the attic again. It was dark, but a fewfrosty stars were shining, and a cold air blew through the open window.Something pale gleamed faintly on the floor. He picked it up—it waswarm and feathery. The answer had come.

He ruffled the soft plumes and found the paper. Before reading it, hefed the pigeon and put it into one of the cages. As he was about tofasten the door, he checked himself.

"If anything happens to me," he said, "there's no need for you tostarve to death, my child."

He pushed the window a little wider open and went downstairs again. Thepaper in his hand bore only the two letters, "O.K." It seemed to havebeen written hurriedly, for there was a long smear of ink in the upperleft-hand corner. He noted this with a smile, put the paper in thefire, and, going out into the kitchen, prepared and ate a hearty mealof eggs and corned beef from a new tin. He ate it without bread, thoughthere was a loaf on the shelf near at hand, and washed it down withwater from the tap, which he let run for some time before venturingto drink it. Even then he carefully wiped the tap, both inside andoutside, before drinking.

When he had finished, he took a revolver from a locked drawer,inspecting the mechanism with attention to see that it was in workingorder, and loaded it with new cartridges from an unbroken packet. Thenhe sat down to wait again.

At a quarter before eleven, he rose and went out into the street. Hewalked briskly, keeping well away from the wall, till he came out intoa well-lighted thoroughfare. Here he took a bus, securing the cornerseat next the conductor, from which he could see everybody who got onand off. A succession of buses eventually brought him to a respectableresidential quarter of Hampstead. Here he alighted and, still keepingwell away from the walls, made his way up to the Heath.

The night was moonless, but not altogether black, and, as he crosseda deserted part of the Heath, he observed one or two other dark formsclosing in upon him from various directions. He paused in the shelterof a large tree, and adjusted to his face a black velvet mask, whichcovered him from brow to chin. At its base the number 21 was clearlyembroidered in white thread.

At length a slight dip in the ground disclosed one of those agreeablevillas which stand, somewhat isolated, among the rural surroundingsof the Heath. One of the windows was lighted. As he made his way tothe door, other dark figures, masked like himself, pressed forward andsurrounded him. He counted six of them.

The foremost man knocked on the door of the solitary house. Aftera moment, it was opened slightly. The man advanced his head to theopening; there was a murmur, and the door opened wide. The man steppedin, and the door was shut.

When three of the men had entered, Rogers found himself to be the nextin turn. He knocked, three times loudly, then twice faintly. The dooropened to the extent of two or three inches, and an ear was presentedto the chink. Rogers whispered "Finality." The ear was withdrawn, thedoor opened, and he passed in.

Without any further word of greeting, Number Twenty-one passed intoa small room on the left, which was furnished like an office, with adesk, a safe, and a couple of chairs. At the desk sat a massive man inevening dress, with a ledger before him. The new arrival shut the doorcarefully after him; it clicked to, on a spring-lock. Advancing to thedesk, he announced, "Number Twenty-one, sir," and stood respectfullywaiting. The big man looked up, showing the number 1 startlingly whiteon his velvet mask. His eyes, of a curious hard blue, scanned Rogersattentively. At a sign from him, Rogers removed his mask. Havingverified his identity with care, the President said, "Very well, NumberTwenty-one," and made an entry in the ledger. The voice was hard andmetallic, like his eyes. The close scrutiny from behind the immovableblack mask seemed to make Rogers uneasy; he shifted his feet, and hiseyes fell. Number One made a sign of dismissal, and Rogers, with afaint sigh as though of relief, replaced his mask and left the room. Ashe came out, the next comer passed in in his place.

The room in which the Society met was a large one, made by knockingthe two largest of the first-floor rooms into one. It was furnished inthe standardised taste of twentieth-century suburbia and brilliantlylighted. A gramophone in one corner blared out a jazz tune, to whichabout ten couples of masked men and women were dancing, some in eveningdress and others in tweeds and jumpers.

In one corner of the room was an American bar. Rogers went up and askedthe masked man in charge for a double whisky. He consumed it slowly,leaning on the bar. The room filled. Presently somebody moved across tothe gramophone and stopped it. He looked round. Number One had appearedon the threshold. A tall woman in black stood beside him. The mask,embroidered with a white 2, covered hair and face completely; only herfine bearing and her white arms and bosom and the dark eyes shiningthrough the eye-slits proclaimed her a woman of power and physicalattraction.

"Ladies and gentlemen." Number One was standing at the upper end of theroom. The woman sat beside him; her eyes were cast down and betrayednothing, but her hands were clenched on the arms of the chair and herwhole figure seemed tensely aware.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Our numbers are two short to-night." The masksmoved; eyes were turned, seeking and counting. "I need not inform youof the disastrous failure of our plan for securing the plans of theCourt-Windlesham helicopter. Our courageous and devoted comrades,Number Fifteen and Number Forty-eight, were betrayed and taken by thepolice."

An uneasy murmur rose among the company.

"It may have occurred to some of you that even the well-knownsteadfastness of these comrades might give way under examination.There is no cause for alarm. The usual orders have been issued, andI have this evening received the report that their tongues have beeneffectually silenced. You will, I am sure, be glad to know that thesetwo brave men have been spared the ordeal of so great a temptation todishonour, and that they will not be called upon to face a public trialand the rigours of a long imprisonment."

A hiss of intaken breath moved across the assembled members like thewind over a barley-field.

"Their dependants will be discreetly compensated in the usual manner.I call upon Numbers Twelve and Thirty-four to undertake this agreeabletask. They will attend me in my office for their instructions after themeeting. Will the Numbers I have named kindly signify that they areable and willing to perform this duty?"

Two hands were raised in salute. The President continued, looking athis watch:

"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners for the next dance."

The gramophone struck up again. Rogers turned to a girl near him ina red dress. She nodded, and they slipped into the movement of afox-trot. The couples gyrated solemnly and in silence. Their shadowswere flung against the blinds as they turned and stepped to and fro.

"What has happened?" breathed the girl in a whisper, scarcely movingher lips. "I'm frightened, aren't you? I feel as if something awful wasgoing to happen."

"It does take one a bit short, the President's way of doing things,"agreed Rogers, "but it's safer like that."

"Those poor men——"

A dancer, turning and following on their heels, touched Rogers on theshoulder.

"No talking, please," he said. His eyes gleamed sternly; he twirled hispartner into the middle of the crowd and was gone. The girl shuddered.

The gramophone stopped. There was a burst of clapping. The dancersagain clustered before the President's seat.

"Ladies and gentlemen. You may wonder why this extraordinary meetinghas been called. The reason is a serious one. The failure of our recentattempt was no accident. The police were not on the premises that nightby chance. We have a traitor among us."

Partners who had been standing close together fell distrustfully apart.Each member seemed to shrink, as a snail shrinks from the touch of afinger.

"You will remember the disappointing outcome of the Dinglewood affair,"went on the President, in his harsh voice. "You may recall othersmaller matters which have not turned out satisfactorily. All thesetroubles have been traced to their origin. I am happy to say that ourminds can now be easy. The offender has been discovered and will beremoved. There will be no more mistakes. The misguided member whointroduced the traitor to our Society will be placed in a positionwhere his lack of caution will have no further ill-effects. There is nocause for alarm."

Every eye roved about the company, searching for the traitor and hisunfortunate sponsor. Somewhere beneath the black masks a face must haveturned white; somewhere under the stifling velvet there must have beena brow sweating, not with the heat of the dance. But the masks hideverything.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners for the next dance."

The gramophone struck into an old and half-forgotten tune: "There ain'tnobody loves me." The girl in red was claimed by a tall mask in eveningdress. A hand laid on Roger's arm made him start. A small, plump womanin a green jumper slipped a cold hand into his. The dance went on.

When it stopped, amid the usual applause, everyone stood, detached,stiffened in expectation. The President's voice was raised again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please behave naturally. This is a dance, not apublic meeting."

Rogers led his partner to a chair and fetched her an ice. As he stoopedover her, he noticed the hurried rise and fall of her bosom.

"Ladies and gentlemen." The endless interval was over. "You will nodoubt wish to be immediately relieved from suspense. I will name thepersons involved. Number Thirty-seven!"

A man sprang up with a fearful, strangled cry.

"Silence!"

The wretch choked and gasped.

"I never—I swear I never—I'm innocent."

"Silence. You have failed in discretion. You will be dealt with. If youhave anything to say in defence of your folly, I will hear it later.Sit down."

Number Thirty-seven sank down upon a chair. He pushed his handkerchiefunder the mask to wipe his face. Two tall men closed in upon him. Therest fell back, feeling the recoil of humanity from one stricken bymortal disease.

The gramophone struck up.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I will now name the traitor. Number Twenty-one,stand forward."

Rogers stepped forward. The concentrated fear and loathing offorty-eight pairs of eyes burned upon him. The miserable Jukes set up afresh wail.

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"

"Silence! Number Twenty-one, take off your mask."

The traitor pulled the thick covering from his face. The intense hatredof the eyes devoured him.

"Number Thirty-seven, this man was introduced here by you, under thename of Joseph Rogers, formerly second footman in the service of theDuke of Denver, dismissed for pilfering. Did you take steps to verifythat statement?"

"I did—I did! As God's my witness, it was all straight. I had himidentified by two of the servants. I made enquiries. The tale wasstraight—I'll swear it was."

The President consulted a paper before him, then he looked at his watchagain.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your partners...."

Number Twenty-one, his arms twisted behind him and bound, and hiswrists hand-cuffed, stood motionless, while the dance of doom circledabout him. The clapping, as it ended, sounded like the clapping of themen and women who sat, thirsty-lipped, beneath the guillotine.

"Number Twenty-one, your name has been given as Joseph Rogers, footman,dismissed for theft. Is that your real name?"

"No."

"What is your name?"

"Peter Death Bredon Wimsey."

"We thought you were dead."

"Naturally. You were intended to think so."

"What has become of the genuine Joseph Rogers?"

"He died abroad. I took his place. I may say that no real blameattaches to your people for not having realised who I was. I not onlytook Roger's place; I was Rogers. Even when I was alone, I walkedlike Rogers, I sat like Rogers, I read Rogers's books, and woreRogers's clothes. In the end, I almost thought Rogers's thoughts. Theonly way to keep up a successful impersonation is never to relax."

"I see. The robbery of your own flat was arranged?"

"Obviously."

"The robbery of the Dowager duch*ess, your mother, was connived at byyou?"

"It was. It was a very ugly tiara—no real loss to anybody with decenttaste. May I smoke, by the way?"

"You may not. Ladies and gentlemen...."

The dance was like the mechanical jigging of puppets. Limbs jerked,feet faltered. The prisoner watched with an air of critical detachment.

"Numbers Fifteen, Twenty-two and Forty-nine. You have watched theprisoner. Has he made any attempts to communicate with anybody?"

"None." Number Twenty-two was the spokesman. "His letters and parcelshave been opened, his telephone tapped, and his movements followed. Hiswater-pipes have been under observation for Morse signals."

"You are sure of what you say?"

"Absolutely."

"Prisoner, have you been alone in this adventure? Speak the truth, orthings will be made somewhat more unpleasant for you than they mightotherwise be."

"I have been alone. I have taken no unnecessary risks."

"It may be so. It will, however, be as well that steps should be takento silence the man at Scotland Yard—what is his name?—Parker. Alsothe prisoner's manservant, Mervyn Bunter, and possibly also his motherand sister. The brother is a stupid oaf, and not, I think, likely tohave been taken into the prisoner's confidence. A precautionary watchwill, I think, meet the necessities of his case."

The prisoner appeared, for the first time, to be moved.

"Sir, I assure you that my mother and sister know nothing which couldpossibly bring danger on the Society."

"You should have thought of their situation earlier. Ladies andgentlemen, please take——"

"No—no!" Flesh and blood could endure the mockery no longer. "No!Finish with him. Get it over. Break up the meeting. It's dangerous. Thepolice——"

"Silence!"

The President glanced round at the crowd. It had a dangerous look aboutit. He gave way.

"Very well. Take the prisoner away and silence him. He will receiveNumber 4 treatment. And be sure you explain it to him carefully first."

"Ah!"

The eyes expressed a wolfish satisfaction. Strong hands grippedWimsey's arms.

"One moment—for God's sake let me die decently."

"You should have thought this over earlier. Take him away. Ladies andgentlemen, be satisfied—he will not die quickly."

"Stop! Wait!" cried Wimsey desperately. "I have something to say. Idon't ask for life—only for a quick death. I—I have something tosell."

"To sell?"

"Yes."

"We make no bargains with traitors."

"No—but listen! Do you think I have not thought of this? I am not somad. I have left a letter."

"Ah! now it is coming. A letter. To whom?"

"To the police. If I do not return to-morrow——"

"Well?"

"The letter will be opened."

"Sir," broke in Number Fifteen. "This is bluff. The prisoner has notsent any letter. He has been strictly watched for many months."

"Ah! but listen. I left the letter before I came to Lambeth."

"Then it can contain no information of value."

"Oh, but it does."

"What?"

"The combination of my safe."

"Indeed? Has this man's safe been searched?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did it contain?"

"No information of importance, sir. An outline of our organisation—thename of this house—nothing that cannot be altered and covered beforemorning."

Wimsey smiled.

"Did you investigate the inner compartment of the safe?"

There was a pause.

"You hear what he says," snapped the President sharply. "Did you findthis inner compartment?"

"There was no inner compartment, sir. He is trying to bluff."

"I hate to contradict you," said Wimsey, with an effort at his ordinarypleasant tone, "but I really think you must have overlooked the innercompartment."

"Well," said the President, "and what do you say is in this innercompartment, if it does exist?"

"The names of every member of this Society, with their addresses,photographs, and finger-prints."

"What?"

The eyes round him now were ugly with fear. Wimsey kept his facesteadily turned towards the President.

"How do you say you have contrived to get this information?"

"Well, I have been doing a little detective work on my own, you know."

"But you have been watched."

"True. The finger-prints of my watchers adorn the first page of thecollection."

"This statement can be proved?"

"Certainly. I will prove it. The name of Number Fifty, for example——"

"Stop!"

A fierce muttering arose. The President silenced it with a gesture.

"If you mention names here, you will certainly have no hope of mercy.There is a fifth treatment—kept specially for people who mentionnames. Bring the prisoner to my office. Keep the dance going."

The President took an automatic from his hip-pocket and faced histightly fettered prisoner across the desk.

"Now speak!" he said.

"I should put that thing away, if I were you," said Wimseycontemptuously. "It would be a much pleasanter form of death thantreatment Number 5, and I might be tempted to ask for it."

"Ingenious," said the President, "but a little too ingenious. Now, bequick; tell me what you know."

"Will you spare me if I tell you?"

"I make no promises. Be quick."

Wimsey shrugged his bound and aching shoulders.

"Certainly. I will tell you what I know. Stop me when you have heardenough."

He leaned forward and spoke low. Overhead the noise of the gramophoneand the shuffling of feet bore witness that the dance was going on.Stray passers-by crossing the Heath noted that the people in the lonelyhouse were making a night of it again.

"Well," said Wimsey, "am I to go on?"

From beneath the mask the President's voice sounded as though he weregrimly smiling.

"My lord," he said, "your story fills me with regret that you arenot, in fact, a member of our Society. Wit, courage, and industry arevaluable to an association like ours. I fear I cannot persuade you?No—I supposed not."

He touched a bell on his desk.

"Ask the members kindly to proceed to the supper-room," he said to themask who entered.

The "supper-room" was on the ground-floor, shuttered and curtained.Down its centre ran a long, bare table, with chairs set about it.

"A Barmecide feast, I see," said Wimsey pleasantly. It was the firsttime he had seen this room. At the far end, a trap-door in the floorgaped ominously.

The President took the head of the table.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, as usual—and the foolish courtesyhad never sounded so sinister—"I will not conceal from you theseriousness of the situation. The prisoner has recited to me more thantwenty names and addresses which were thought to be unknown, except totheir owners and to me. There has been great carelessness"—his voicerang harshly—"which will have to be looked into. Finger-prints havebeen obtained—he has shown me the photographs of some of them. How ourinvestigators came to overlook the inner door of this safe is a matterwhich calls for enquiry."

"Don't blame them," put in Wimsey. "It was meant to be overlooked, youknow. I made it like that on purpose."

The President went on, without seeming to notice the interruption.

"The prisoner informs me that the book with the names and addresses isto be found in this inner compartment, together with certain lettersand papers stolen from the houses of members, and numerous objectsbearing authentic finger-prints. I believe him to be telling the truth.He offers the combination of the safe in exchange for a quick death. Ithink the offer should be accepted. What is your opinion, ladies andgentlemen?"

"The combination is known already," said Number Twenty-two.

"Imbecile! This man has told us, and has proved to me, that he isLord Peter Wimsey. Do you think he will have forgotten to alter thecombination? And then there is the secret of the inner door. If hedisappears to-night and the police enter his house——"

"I say," said a woman's rich voice, "that the promise should be givenand the information used—and quickly. Time is getting short."

A murmur of agreement went round the table.

"You hear," said the President, addressing Wimsey. "The Society offersyou the privilege of a quick death in return for the combination of thesafe and the secret of the inner door."

"I have your word for it?"

"You have."

"Thank you. And my mother and sister?"

"If you in your turn will give us your word—you are a man ofhonour—that these women know nothing that could harm us, they shall bespared."

"Thank you, sir. You may rest assured, upon my honour, that they knownothing. I should not think of burdening any woman with such dangeroussecrets—particularly those who are dear to me."

"Very well. It is agreed—yes?"

The murmur of assent was given, though with less readiness than before.

"Then I am willing to give you the information you want. The word ofthe combination is UNRELIABILITY."

"And the inner door?"

"In anticipation of the visit of the police, the inner door—whichmight have presented difficulties—is open."

"Good! You understand that if the police interfere with ourmessenger——"

"That would not help me, would it?"

"It is a risk," said the President thoughtfully, "but a risk which Ithink we must take. Carry the prisoner down to the cellar. He can amusehimself by contemplating apparatus Number 5. In the meantime, NumbersTwelve and Forty-six——"

"No, no!"

A sullen mutter of dissent arose and swelled threateningly.

"No," said a tall man with a voice like treacle. "No—why should anymembers be put in possession of this evidence? We have found onetraitor among us to-night and more than one fool. How are we to knowthat Numbers Twelve and Forty-six are not fools and traitors also?"

The two men turned savagely upon the speaker, but a girl's voice struckinto the discussion, high and agitated.

"Hear, hear! That's right, I say. How about us? We ain't going to haveour names read by somebody we don't know nothing about. I've had enoughof this. They might sell the 'ole lot of us to the narks."

"I agree," said another member. "Nobody ought to be trusted, nobody atall."

The President shrugged his shoulders.

"Then what, ladies and gentlemen, do you suggest?"

There was a pause. Then the same girl shrilled out again:

"I say Mr. President oughter go himself. He's the only one as knowsall the names. It won't be no cop to him. Why should we take all therisk and trouble and him sit at home and collar the money? Let him gohimself, that's what I say."

A long rustle of approbation went round the table.

"I second that motion," said a stout man who wore a bunch of goldseals at his fob. Wimsey smiled as he looked at the seals; it was thattrifling vanity which had led him directly to the name and address ofthe stout man, and he felt a certain affection for the trinkets on thataccount.

The President looked round.

"It is the wish of the meeting, then, that I should go?" he said, in anominous voice.

Forty-five hands were raised in approbation. Only the woman known asNumber Two remained motionless and silent, her strong white handsclenched on the arm of the chair.

The President rolled his eyes slowly round the threatening ring tillthey rested upon her.

"Am I to take it that this vote is unanimous?" he enquired.

The woman raised her head.

"Don't go," she gasped faintly.

"You hear," said the President, in a faintly derisive tone. "This ladysays, don't go."

"I submit that what Number Two says is neither here nor there," saidthe man with the treacly voice. "Our own ladies might not like us to begoing, if they were in madam's privileged position." His voice was aninsult.

"Hear, hear!" cried another man. "This is a democratic society, thisis. We don't want no privileged classes."

"Very well," said the President. "You hear, Number Two. The feelingof the meeting is against you. Have you any reasons to put forward infavour of your opinion?"

"A hundred. The President is the head and soul of our Society. Ifanything should happen to him—where should we be? You"—she swept thecompany magnificently with her eyes—"you have all blundered. We haveyour carelessness to thank for all this. Do you think we should besafe for five minutes if the President were not here to repair yourfollies?"

"Something in that," said a man who had not hitherto spoken.

"Pardon my suggesting," said Wimsey maliciously, "that, as the ladyappears to be in a position peculiarly favourable for the receptionof the President's confidences, the contents of my modest volume willprobably be no news to her. Why should not Number Two go herself?"

"Because I say she must not," said the President sternly, checking thequick reply that rose to his companion's lips. "If it is the will ofthe meeting, I will go. Give me the key of the house."

One of the men extracted it from Wimsey's jacket-pocket and handed itover.

"Is the house watched?" he demanded of Wimsey.

"No."

"That is the truth?"

"It is the truth."

The President turned at the door.

"If I have not returned in two hours' time," he said, "act for the bestto save yourselves, and do what you like with the prisoner. Number Twowill give orders in my absence."

He left the room. Number Two rose from her seat with a gesture ofcommand.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Supper is now considered over. Start the dancingagain."

Down in the cellar the time passed slowly, in the contemplation ofapparatus Number 5. The miserable Jukes, alternately wailing andraving, at length shrieked himself into exhaustion. The four membersguarding the prisoners whispered together from time to time.

"An hour and a half since the President left," said one.

Wimsey glanced up. Then he returned to his examination of the room.There were many curious things in it, which he wanted to memorise.

Presently the trap-door was flung open. "Bring him up!" cried a voice.Wimsey rose immediately, and his face was rather pale.

The members of the gang were again seated round the table. Number Twooccupied the President's chair, and her eyes fastened on Wimsey's facewith a tigerish fury, but when she spoke it was with a self-controlwhich roused his admiration.

"The President has been two hours gone," she said. "What has happenedto him? Traitor twice over—what has happened to him?"

"How should I know?" said Wimsey. "Perhaps he has looked after NumberOne and gone while the going was good!"

She sprang up with a little cry of rage, and came close to him.

"Beast! liar!" she said, and struck him on the mouth. "You know hewould never do that. He is faithful to his friends. What have you donewith him? Speak—or I will make you speak. You two, there—bring theirons. He shall speak!"

"I can only form a guess, madame," replied Wimsey, "and I shallnot guess any the better for being stimulated with hot irons, likePantaloon at the circus. Calm yourself, and I will tell you what Ithink. I think—indeed, I greatly fear—that Monsieur le Président inhis hurry to examine the interesting exhibits in my safe may, quiteinadvertently, no doubt, have let the door of the inner compartmentclose behind him. In which case——"

He raised his eyebrows, his shoulders being too sore for shrugging, andgazed at her with a limpid and innocent regret.

"What do you mean?"

Wimsey glanced round the circle.

"I think," he said, "I had better begin from the beginning byexplaining to you the mechanism of my safe. It is rather a nice safe,"he added plaintively. "I invented the idea myself—not the principle ofits working, of course; that is a matter for scientists—but just theidea of the thing.

"The combination I gave you is perfectly correct as far as it goes. Itis a three-alphabet thirteen-letter lock by Bunn & Fishett—a very goodone of its kind. It opens the outer door, leading into the ordinarystrong-room, where I keep my cash and my Froth Blower's cuff-links andall that. But there is an inner compartment with two doors, which openin quite a different manner. The outermost of these two inner doors ismerely a thin steel skin, painted to look like the back of the safeand fitting closely, so as not to betray any join. It lies in the sameplane as the wall of the room, you understand, so that if you were tomeasure the outside and the inside of the safe you would discover nodiscrepancy. It opens outwards with an ordinary key, and, as I trulyassured the President, it was left open when I quitted my flat."

"Do you think," said the woman sneeringly, "that the President is sosimple as to be caught in a so obvious trap? He will have wedged openthat inner door undoubtedly."

"Undoubtedly, madame. But the sole purpose of that outer inner door, ifI may so express myself, is to appear to be the only inner door. Buthidden behind the hinge of that door is another door, a sliding panel,set so closely in the thickness of the wall that you would hardly seeit unless you knew it was there. This door was also left open. Ourrevered Number One had nothing to do but to walk straight through intothe inner compartment of the safe, which, by the way, is built into thechimney of the old basem*nt kitchen, which runs up the house at thatpoint. I hope I make myself clear?"

"Yes, yes—get on. Make your story short."

Wimsey bowed, and, speaking with even greater deliberation than ever,resumed:

"Now, this interesting list of the Society's activities, which I havehad the honour of compiling, is written in a very large book—bigger,even, than Monsieur le Président's ledger which he uses downstairs. (Itrust, by the way, madame, that you have borne in mind the necessityof putting that ledger in a safe place. Apart from the risk ofinvestigation by some officious policeman, it would be inadvisable thatany junior member of the Society should get hold of it. The feeling ofthe meeting would, I fancy, be opposed to such an occurrence.)"

"It is secure," she answered hastily. "Mon dieu! get on with yourstory."

"Thank you—you have relieved my mind. Very good. This big book lieson a steel shelf at the back of the inner compartment. Just a moment.I have not described this inner compartment to you. It is six feethigh, three feet wide, and three feet deep. One can stand up in itquite comfortably, unless one is very tall. It suits me nicely—as youmay see, I am not more than five feet eight and a half. The Presidenthas the advantage of me in height; he might be a little cramped, butthere would be room for him to squat if he grew tired of standing. Bythe way, I don't know if you know it, but you have tied me up rathertightly."

"I would have you tied till your bones were locked together. Beat him,you! He is trying to gain time."

"If you beat me," said Wimsey, "I'm damned if I'll speak at all.Control yourself, madame; it does not do to move hastily when your kingis in check."

"Get on!' she cried again, stamping with rage.

"Where was I? Ah! the inner compartment. As I say, it is a littlesnug—the more so that it is not ventilated in any way. Did I mentionthat the book lay on a steel shelf?"

"You did."

"Yes. The steel shelf is balanced on a very delicate concealed spring.When the weight of the book—a heavy one, as I said—is lifted, theshelf rises almost imperceptibly. In rising it makes an electricalcontact. Imagine to yourself, madame; our revered President stepsin—propping the false door open behind him—he sees the book—quicklyhe snatches it up. To make sure that it is the right one, he opensit—he studies the pages. He looks about for the other objects I havementioned, which bear the marks of finger-prints. And silently, butvery, very quickly—you can imagine it, can you not?—the secret panel,released by the rising of the shelf, leaps across like a panther behindhim. Rather a trite simile, but apt, don't you think?"

"My God! oh, my God!" Her hand went up as though to tear the chokingmask from her face. "You—you devil—devil! What is the word thatopens the inner door? Quick! I will have it torn out of you—the word!"

"It is not a hard word to remember, madame—though it has beenforgotten before now. Do you recollect, when you were a child, beingtold the tale of 'Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves'? When I had that doormade, my mind reverted, with rather a pretty touch of sentimentality,in my opinion, to the happy hours of my childhood. The words that openthe door are—'Open Sesame'."

"Ah! How long can a man live in this devil's trap of yours?"

"Oh," said Wimsey cheerfully, "I should think he might hold out afew hours if he kept cool and didn't use up the available oxygen byshouting and hammering. If we went there at once, I dare say we shouldfind him fairly all right."

"I shall go myself. Take this man and—do your worst with him. Don'tfinish him till I come back. I want to see him die!"

"One moment," said Wimsey, unmoved by this amiable wish. "I think youhad better take me with you."

"Why—why?"

"Because, you see, I'm the only person who can open the door."

"But you have given me the word. Was that a lie?"

"No—the word's all right. But, you see, it's one of these new-styleelectric doors. In fact, it's really the very latest thing in doors.I'm rather proud of it. It opens to the words 'Open Sesame' allright—but to my voice only."

"Your voice? I will choke your voice with my own hands. What do youmean—your voice only?"

"Just what I say. Don't clutch my throat like that, or you may altermy voice so that the door won't recognise it. That's better. It's aptto be rather pernickety about voices. It got stuck up for a week once,when I had a cold and could only implore it in a hoarse whisper. Evenin the ordinary way, I sometimes have to try several times before I hiton the exact right intonation."

She turned and appealed to a short, thick-set man standing beside her.

"Is this true? Is it possible?"

"Perfectly, ma'am, I'm afraid," said the man civilly. From his voiceWimsey took him to be a superior workman of some kind—probably anengineer.

"Is it an electrical device? Do you understand it?"

"Yes, ma'am. It will have a microphone arrangement somewhere, whichconverts the sound into a series of vibrations controlling an electricneedle. When the needle has traced the correct pattern, the circuitis completed and the door opens. The same thing can be done by lightvibrations equally easily."

"Couldn't you open it with tools?"

"In time, yes, ma'am. But only by smashing the mechanism, which isprobably well protected."

"You may take that for granted," interjected Wimsey reassuringly.

She put her hands to her head.

"I'm afraid we're done in," said the engineer, with a kind of respectin his tone for a good job of work.

"No—wait! Somebody must know—the workmen who made this thing?"

"In Germany," said Wimsey briefly.

"Or—yes, yes, I have it—a gramophone. This—this—he—shall be madeto say the word for us. Quick—how can it be done?"

"Not possible, ma'am. Where should we get the apparatus at half-pastthree on a Sunday morning? The poor gentleman would be dead longbefore——"

There was a silence, during which the sounds of the wakening day camethrough the shuttered windows. A motor-horn sounded distantly.

"I give in," she said. "We must let him go. Take the ropes off him. Youwill free him, won't you?" she went on, turning piteously to Wimsey."Devil as you are, you are not such a devil as that! You will gostraight back and save him!"

"Let him go, nothing!" broke in one of the men. "He doesn't go to peachto the police, my lady, don't you think it. The President's done in,that's all, and we'd all better make tracks while we can. It's all up,boys. Chuck this fellow down the cellar and fasten him in, so he can'tmake a row and wake the place up. I'm going to destroy the ledgers. Youcan see it done if you don't trust me. And you, Thirty, you know wherethe switch is. Give us a quarter of an hour to clear, and then you canblow the place to glory."

"No! You can't go—you can't leave him to die—your President—yourleader—my—I won't let it happen. Set this devil free. Help me, one ofyou, with the ropes——"

"None of that, now," said the man who had spoken before. He caught herby the wrists, and she twisted, shrieking, in his arms, biting andstruggling to get free.

"Think, think," said the man with the treacly voice. "It's getting onto morning. It'll be light in an hour or two. The police may be hereany minute."

"The police!" She seemed to control herself by a violent effort. "Yes,yes, you are right. We must not imperil the safety of all for the sakeof one man. He himself would not wish it. That is so. We will putthis carrion in the cellar where it cannot harm us, and depart, everyone to his own place, while there is time."

"And the other prisoner?"

"He? Poor fool—he can do no harm. He knows nothing. Let him go," sheanswered contemptuously.

In a few minutes' time Wimsey found himself bundled unceremoniouslyinto the depths of the cellar. He was a little puzzled. That theyshould refuse to let him go, even at the price of Number One's life, hecould understand. He had taken the risk with his eyes open. But thatthey should leave him as a witness against them seemed incredible.

The men who had taken him down strapped his ankles together anddeparted, switching the lights out as they went.

"Hi! Kamerad!" said Wimsey. "It's a bit lonely sitting here. You mightleave the light on."

"It's all right, my friend," was the reply. "You will not be in thedark long. They have set the time-fuse."

The other man laughed with rich enjoyment, and they went out together.So that was it. He was to be blown up with the house. In that casethe President would certainly be dead before he was extricated. Thisworried Wimsey; he would rather have been able to bring the big crookto justice. After all, Scotland Yard had been waiting six years tobreak up this gang.

He waited, straining his ears. It seemed to him that he heard footstepsover his head. The gang had all crept out by this time....

There was certainly a creak. The trap-door had opened; he felt, ratherthan heard, somebody creeping into the cellar.

"Hush!" said a voice in his ear. Soft hands passed over his face, andwent fumbling about his body. There came the cold touch of steel onhis wrists. The ropes slackened and dropped off. A key clicked in thehandcuffs. The strap about his ankles was unbuckled.

"Quick! quick! they have set the time-switch. The house is mined.Follow me as fast as you can. I stole back—I said I had left myjewellery. It was true. I left it on purpose. He must be saved—onlyyou can do it. Make haste!"

Wimsey, staggering with pain, as the blood rushed back into his boundand numbed arms, crawled after her into the room above. A moment, andshe had flung back the shutters and thrown the window open.

"Now go! Release him! You promise?"

"I promise. And I warn you, madame, that this house is surrounded. Whenmy safe-door closed it gave a signal which sent my servant to ScotlandYard. Your friends are all taken——"

"Ah! But you go—never mind me—quick! The time is almost up."

"Come away from this!"

He caught her by the arm, and they went running and stumbling acrossthe little garden. An electric torch shone suddenly in the bushes.

"That you, Parker?" cried Wimsey. "Get your fellows away. Quick! thehouse is going up in a minute."

The garden seemed suddenly full of shouting, hurrying men. Wimsey,floundering in the darkness, was brought up violently against thewall. He made a leap at the coping, caught it, and hoisted himselfup. His hands groped for the woman; he swung her up beside him. Theyjumped; everyone was jumping; the woman caught her foot and fell witha gasping cry. Wimsey tried to stop himself, tripped over a stone, andcame down headlong. Then, with a flash and a roar, the night went up infire.

Wimsey picked himself painfully out from among the débris of the gardenwall. A faint moaning near him proclaimed that his companion was stillalive. A lantern was turned suddenly upon them.

"Here you are!" said a cheerful voice. "Are you all right, old thing?Good lord! what a hairy monster!"

"All right," said Wimsey. "Only a bit winded. Is the lady safe?H'm—arm broken, apparently—otherwise sound. What's happened?"

"About half a dozen of 'em got blown up; the rest we've bagged."Wimsey became aware of a circle of dark forms in the wintry dawn."Good Lord, what a day! What a come-back for a public character! Youold stinker—to let us go on for two years thinking you were dead! Ibought a bit of black for an arm-band. I did, really. Did anybody know,besides Bunter?"

"Only my mother and sister. I put it in a secret trust—you know, thething you send to executors and people. We shall have an awful timewith the lawyers, I'm afraid, proving I'm me. Hullo! Is that friendSugg?"

"Yes, my lord," said Inspector Sugg, grinning and nearly weeping withexcitement. "Damned glad to see your lordship again. Fine piece ofwork, your lordship. They're all wanting to shake hands with you, sir."

"Oh, Lord! I wish I could get washed and shaved first. Awfully gladto see you all again, after two years' exile in Lambeth. Been a goodlittle show, hasn't it?"

"Is he safe?"

Wimsey started at the agonised cry.

"Good Lord!" he cried. "I forgot the gentleman in the safe. Here, fetcha car, quickly. I've got the great big top Moriarty of the whole bunchquietly asphyxiating at home. Here—hop in, and put the lady in too. Ipromised we'd get back and save him—though" (he finished the sentencein Parker's ear) "there may be murder charges too, and I wouldn't givemuch for his chance at the Old Bailey. Whack her up. He can't lastmuch longer shut up there. He's the bloke you've been wanting, the manat the back of the Morrison case and the Hope-Wilmington case, andhundreds of others."

The cold morning had turned the streets grey when they drew up beforethe door of the house in Lambeth. Wimsey took the woman by the arm andhelped her out. The mask was off now, and showed her face, haggard anddesperate, and white with fear and pain.

"Russian, eh?" whispered Parker in Wimsey's ear.

"Something of the sort. Damn! the front door's blown shut, and theblighter's got the key with him in the safe. Hop through the window,will you?"

Parker bundled obligingly in, and in a few seconds threw open the doorto them. The house seemed very still. Wimsey led the way to the backroom, where the strong-room stood. The outer door and the second doorstood propped open with chairs. The inner door faced them like a blankgreen wall.

"Only hope he hasn't upset the adjustment with thumping at it,"muttered Wimsey. The anxious hand on his arm clutched feverishly.He pulled himself together, forcing his tone to one of cheerfulcommonplace.

"Come on, old thing," he said, addressing himself conversationally tothe door. "Show us your paces. Open Sesame, confound you. Open Sesame!"

The green door slid suddenly away into the wall. The woman sprangforward and caught in her arms the humped and senseless thing thatrolled out from the safe. Its clothes were torn to ribbons, and itsbattered hands dripped blood.

"It's all right," said Wimsey, "it's all right! He'll live—to standhis trial."

NOTES TO THE SOLUTION

THE SOLUTION OF THE CROSS-WORD PUZZLE IN "UNCLE MELEAGER'S WILL."

BOOKS BY DOROTHY L. SAYERS:

THE NINE TAILORS

HANGMAN'S HOLIDAY

WHOSE BODY?

HAVE HIS CARCASE

THE FIVE RED HERRINGS

STRONG POISON

LORD PETER VIEWS THE BODY

THE UNPLEASANTNESS AT THE BELLONA CLUB

THE DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE (In collaboration with Robert Eustace)

UNNATURAL DEATH

CLOUDS OF WITNESS

GAUDY NIGHT

BUSMAN'S HONEYMOON

IN THE TEETH OF THE EVIDENCE