Chapter 10
I wouldn’t say that Giles was actually smirking, but there was a definite look of quiet satisfaction on his face, and I suddenly remembered what this sickening scene with Lumpy had caused me to forget – viz. that the last time I had seen him he had been on his way to the telephone to ring up the Secretary of the Junior Ganymede Club. I sprang to my feet eagerly. Unless I had misread that look, he had something to report.
“Did you connect with the Sec., Giles?”
“Yes, miss. I have just finished speaking to him.”
“And did he dish the dirt?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Tell me all.”
“I fear I cannot do that, miss. The rules of the club regarding the dissemination of material recorded in the book are very rigid.”
“You mean your lips are sealed?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Then what was the use of telephoning?”
“It is only the details of the matter which I am precluded from mentioning, miss. I am perfectly at liberty to tell you that it would greatly lessen Mr. Spode’s potentiality for evil, if you were to inform him that you know all about Ilyria, miss.”
“Ilyria?”
“Ilyria, miss.”
“That would really put the stopper on him?”
“Yes, miss.”
I pondered. It didn’t sound much to go on.
“You’re sure you can’t go a bit deeper into to the subject?”
“Quite sure, miss. Were I to do so, it is probable that my resignation would be called for.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want that to happen, of course.” I hated to think of a squad of butlers forming a hollow square while the Committee snipped his buttons off. “Still, you really are sure that if I look Spode in the eye and spring this gag, it would make him wilt?”
“Yes, miss. The subject of Ilyria, miss, is one which the gentleman, occupying the position he does in the public eye, would I am convinced, be most reluctant to have ventilated.”
I practiced it for a bit. I walked up to the chest of drawers with my hands behind my back and said, “Spode, I know all about Ilyria.” I tried again, waggling my finger this time. I then had a go at it with folded arms, and I must say it still didn’t sound so convincing.
However, I told myself that Giles always knew.
“Well, if you say so, Giles. Then the first thing I had better do is find Lumpy and give him this life-saving information.”
“Miss?”
“Oh, of course, you don’t know anything about that, do you? I must tell you, Giles, that since we last met, the plot has thickened again. Were you aware that Spode has apparently sworn himself as protector of Miss Travers?”
“No, miss.”
“Well, such seems to be the case. Lumpy’s engagement to Miss Jenkins has gone phut for reasons highly discreditable to the male contracting party. Anya caught her fiancé with his hand on Miss Travers’ leg. So Spode now wants to break Lumpy’s neck.”
“Indeed, miss?”
“I assure you. He was in here just now, speaking of it, and Lumpy, who happened to be under the bed at the time, heard him. With the result that he now talks of getting out the window and going to California. Which, of course, would be fatal. It is imperative that he stays on and tries to effect a reconciliation.”
“Yes, miss.”
“He can’t effect a reconciliation if he is in California hiding out in some sunny town called Sunnyville, or Sunnyvale… or Sunnydale, or what have you.”
“No, miss.”
“So I must go and try to find him. Though, mark you, I doubt he will be easily found at this point in his career. He is probably on the roof wondering how he can pull it up after him.”
My misgivings were abundantly justified. I searched the house assiduously, but there were no signs of him. Somewhere, no doubt, Totleigh Towers hid Alexander Harrison-Phipps, but it kept its secret well. Eventually, I gave it up, and returned to my room, and stap my vitals if the first thing I beheld on entering wasn’t the man in person. He was standing by the bed, knotting sheets.
The fact that he had his back to the door and that the carpet was soft kept him from being aware of my entry till I spoke. “Hey!” – a pretty sharp one, for I was aghast at seeing my bed mussed about – brought him spinning round, ashen to the lips.
“Woof!” he exclaimed. “I thought you were Spode!”
Indignation succeeded panic. He gave me a hard stare. He looked like an annoyed turbot.
“What do you mean, you blasted Rosenby,” he demanded, “by sneaking up on a fellow and saying, ‘Hey!’ like that? You might have given me heart failure.”
“And what you do mean, you blighted Harrison-Phipps,” I demanded in my turn, “by mucking up my bed linen after I specifically forbade it? You have sheets of your own. Go and knot those.”
“How can I? Spode is sitting on my bed.”
“He is?”
“Certainly he is. Waiting for me. I went there after I left you and there he was. If he hadn’t happened to clear his throat, I’d have walked right in.”
I saw it was high time to set this disturbed spirit at rest.
“You needn’t be afraid of Spode, Lumpy.”
“What do you mean? Talk sense!”
“I mean just that. Spode,
qua menace, if
qua is the word I want, is a thing of the past. Owing to the extraordinary perfection of Giles’ secret system, I have learned something about him which he wouldn’t care to have generally known.”
“What?”
“Ah, there you have me. When I said I learned it, I should have said Giles learned it, and unfortunately Giles’ lips are sealed. However, I am in a position to slip it across the man in no uncertain fashion. If he attempts any rough stuff, I will give him the works.” I broke off, listening. Footsteps were coming along the passage. “Ah!” I said, “someone approaches. This may quite possibly be the blighter himself.”
Lumpy let out an animal cry and immediately backed himself up as far as he could go.
“Lock that door!”
I waved a fairly airy hand.
“It will not be necessary,” I said. “Let him come. I positively welcome the visit. Watch me deal with him, Lumpy. It will amuse you.”
I had guessed correctly. It was Spode, all right. No doubt he had grown weary of sitting on Lumpy’s bed, and had felt that another chat with Willow might serve to vary the monotony. He came in, as before, without knocking, and as he perceived Lumpy, uttered a wordless exclamation of triumph and satisfaction. He then stood for a moment, breathing heavily through the nostrils.
He seemed to have grown a bit since our last meeting, being about eight foot six, and had my advices
in re getting the bulge on him proceeded from a less authoritative source, his aspect might have intimidated me quite a good deal. But so sedulously had I been trained over the year to rely on Giles’ lightest word that I regarded him without a tremor.
“Well, Spode,” I said. “What is it now?”
“Ha!” he said.
Well, of course, I was not going to stand any rot like that. This habit of his going about the place saying, “Ha!” was one that had got to be checked, and checked promptly.
“Spode!” I said sharply, and I have an idea that I rapped the table.
He seemed for the first time to become aware of my presence. He paused for an instant, and gave me an unpleasant look.
“Well, what do
you want?”
I raised an eyebrow or two.
“What do I want? I like that. That’s good. Since you ask, Spode, I want to know what the devil you mean by keeping coming into my private apartment, taking up space which I require for other purposes and interrupting me when I am chatting with my personal friends. Really, one gets about as much privacy in this house as a strip-tease dancer. I assume that you have a room of your own. Get back to it, you fat slob, and stay there.”
Spode seemed a good deal impressed. He was staring incredulously, like one bitten by a rabbit. He seemed to be asking himself if this was the same shrinking violet he’d conferred with on the terrace.
He asked me if I had called him a fat slob, and I said I had.
“A fat slob?”
“A fat slob. It is about time,” I proceeded, “that some public-spirited person came along and told you where you got off. The trouble with you, Spode, is that just because you have succeeded in inducing a handful of half-wits to disfigure the London scene by going about in black shorts, you think you’re someone.”
He did what is known as struggling for utterance.
“Oh?” he said. “Ha! Well, I will attend to you later.”
“And I,” I retorted, “will attend to you now. Spode,” I said, unmasking my batteries, “I know your secret!”
“Eh?”
“I know all about--”
“All about what?”
It’s an extraordinary thing about names. You’ve probably noticed it yourself. You think you’ve got them, I mean to say, and they simply slither away. I’ve often wished I had a quid for every time some bird with a perfectly familiar map has come up to me and Hallo-Rosenbyed, and had me gasping for air because I couldn’t put a label on her. This always makes one feel at a loss, but on no previous occasion had I felt such a loss as I did now.
“All about what?” said Spode.
“Well, as a matter of fact,” I had to confess, “I’ve forgotten.”
A sort of gasping gulp from up-stage directed my attention to Lumpy again, and I could see that the significance of my words had not been lost on him. Once more he tried to back; and as he realized he had already gone as far as he could go, a glare of despair came into his eyes. And then, abruptly, as Spode began to advance upon him, it changed to one of determination and stern resolve.
I like to think of Alexander Harrison-Phipps at that moment. He showed up well. Hitherto, I am bound to say, I have never regarded him highly as a man of action. Essentially the dreamer type, I should have said. But now he couldn’t have smacked into it with a proper gusto if he had been a rough-and-tumble fighter on the San Francisco waterfront from early childhood.
Above him, as he stood glued to the wall, there hung a fairish-sized oil painting of a chap in knee-breeches and a three-cornered hat gazing at a female who appeared to be chirruping a bird of sorts – a dove, unless I am mistaken, or a pigeon. I watched proudly as Lumpy tore it from its moldings and brought it down with a nice wristy action on Spode’s head.
If ever there was a fellow who needed hitting with oil paintings, that fellow was Lucas Spode. The gesture did divert Spode from his purpose for few seconds. He stood there blinking, with the thing round his neck like a ruff, and the pause was sufficient to enable me to get into action.
Give us a lead, make it quite clear that the party has warmed up and that from now anything goes, and we Rosenbys do not hang back. There was a sheet lying on the bed where Lumpy had dropped it when disturbed at his knotting, and to snatch this up and envelope Spode in it was with me the work of a moment.
I suppose a man who has been hit over the head with a picture of a girl chirruping to a pigeon and almost immediately afterwards enmeshed in a sheet can never really retain the cool, intelligent, outlook. Spode, hearing the rushing sound of Lumpy exiting, made a leap in its general direction and took the inevitable toss. At the moment when Lumpy, moving well, passed through the door, he was on the ground, more inextricably entangled than before.
My own friends, advising me, would undoubtedly have recommended an immediate departure at this point, and looking back, I can see that where I went wrong was in pausing to hit the bulge which, from the remarks that were coming through at that spot, I took to be Spode’s head, with a china vase that stood on the mantelpiece. It was a strategical error. I got home all right and the vase broke into a dozen pieces, which was all to the good – for the more of the property of a man like Sir Quentin Travers that was destroyed, the better – but the action of dealing this buffet caused me to overbalance. The next moment, a hand coming out from under the sheet had grabbed my dress.
It was a serious disaster of course, and one which might well have caused a lesser person to feel that it was no use going on struggling. But the whole point about the Rosenbys, as I have had occasion to remark before, is that they are not lesser persons. They keep their heads. They think quickly, and they act quickly. Napoleon was the same. Hastily, I leaned down and bit sharply into his ham-like hand which was impeding the getaway.
The results were thoroughly gratifying. With a sharp cry of anguish, he released the dress, and I delayed no longer. Willow Rosenby is a woman who knows when and when not to be among those present. When Willow Rosenby sees a lion in her path, she ducks down a side street. I was off at an impressive speed, and would no doubt have crossed the threshold with a burst which would have clipped a second or two off Lumpy’s time, had I not experienced a head-on collision with a soft body which happened to be entering at the moment. I remember thinking, as we twined our arms round each other, that at Totleigh Towers, if it wasn’t one thing, it was bound to be something else.
I fancy that it was the scent of
eau-de-Parfum that still clung to her temples that enabled me to identify this soft body as that of my darling Tara, though even without it the delightful and familiar sensation of her pressed into my arms would have put me swiftly on the right track. We came down in a tangled heap, and must have rolled inwards to some extent, for the next thing I knew, we were colliding with the sheeted figure of Lucas Spode, who when last seen had been at the other end of the room. No doubt the explanation is that we had rolled nor’-nor’-east and he had been rolling sou’-sou’-west, with the result that we had come together somewhere in the middle.
Spode, I noticed, as Reason began to return to her throne, was holding my dear Tara by the left leg, and she didn’t seem to be liking it much. A good deal of breath had been knocked out of her by the impact of a redheaded companion on her midriff, but enough remained to enable her to expostulate with a fire not typical of her delicate sensibilities.
“What on earth is going on?” she demanded heatedly. “I’d only arrived five minutes ago and already I’ve met Lumpy racing along the corridor like a mustang; then, Willow, you come crashing into me at top speed. And now the gentleman in the toga is grabbing at my ankle.”
These protests must have filtered through to Spode, and presumably stirred his better nature, for he let go, and she got up, dusting her dress.
“Now, then,” she said, somewhat calmer. “An explanation, Willow, if you please. What’s this all about? Who’s the fellow inside that sheet?”
I, too, rose and adjusted my frock, then made the introductions.
“Mr. Lucas Spode, Miss Tara Maclay.”
Spode had now removed the sheet, but the picture was still in position and Miss Maclay eyed it wonderingly.
“Why have you got that thing round your neck?” she asked. Then, in a more tolerant vein, “Wear it if you like, of course, but I feel you should know it doesn’t flatter you.”
Spode did not reply. He was breathing heavily. I didn’t blame him, mind you – in his place, I’d have done the same – but the sound was not agreeable, and I wished he wouldn’t. He was also gazing at me intently, and I wished he wouldn’t do that either. His face was flushed, his eyes were bulging, and one had the odd illusion that his hair was standing on end – like the quills of a fretful porcupine.
“I must ask you to leave us, miss,” he said.
“But I’ve only just arrived,” said Tara.
“I am going to thrash this woman within an inch of her life.”
It was quite the wrong tone to take with my sweet cherub. She has a very protective spirit and, as should be obvious, is very fond of her Willow. Her brow darkened.
“You won’t touch her.”
“I am going to break every bone in her body.”
“You aren’t going to do anything of the sort. The idea! Stop or I’ll... Here, you!”
She raised her voice sharply as she spoke the concluding words, and what had caused her to do so was the fact that Spode at this moment made a sudden move in my direction.
Considering the manner in which his eyes were gleaming and his moustache bristling, not to mention the gritting teeth and sinister twiddling of the fingers, it was a move which might have been expected to send me flitting away like an adagio dancer. And had it occurred somewhat earlier, it would undoubtedly have done so. But I did not flit. I stood where I was, calm and collected. Whether I folded my arms or not, I cannot recall, but I remember that there was a faint, amused, smile on my lips.
For that brief monosyllables “I’ll” and “here” had accomplished what a quarter of an hour’s research had been unable to do – viz. the unsealing of the fount of memory. Giles’ words came back to me in a rush. One moment, the mind a blank: the next, the fount of memory spouting like nobody’s business. It often happens this way.
“One minute, Spode,” I said quietly. “Just one minute. Before you start getting above yourself, it may interest you to learn that I know all about Ilyria.”
It was stupendous. I felt like one of those chaps who press buttons and exploded mines. If it hadn’t been that my implicit faith in Giles had led me to expect solid results, I should have been astounded at the effect of this pronouncement on the man. You could see that it had got right in amongst him and churned him up like an egg whisk. He recoiled as if he had run into something hot, and a look of horror and alarm spread slowly across his face.
“Oh, do you?” he asked.
“I do,” I replied.
If he had asked me what I knew about her, he’d have had me stymied, but he didn’t.
“Er – how did you find out?”
“I have my methods.”
“Oh, really?”
“Ah,” I replied. There was silence again for a moment.
I wouldn’t have believed it possible for so tough an egg to sidle obsequiously, but that was how he now sidled up to me. There was a pleading look in his eyes.
“I hope you will keep this to yourself, Miss Rosenby? You will keep it to yourself, won’t you, Miss Rosenby?”
“I will –”
“Thank you, Miss Rosenby.”
“—provided,” I continued, “That we have no more of these extraordinary exhibitions on your part of – what’s the word?”
He sidled a bit closer.
“Of course, of course. I’m afraid I have been acting rather hastily.” He reached out a hand and dusted the strap of my dress. “Did I rumple your dress, Miss Rosenby? I’m sorry. I forgot myself. It shall not happen again.”
“It had better not. Good Lord! Grabbing ladies’ dresses and saying you’re going to break birds’ bones. I never heard of such a thing.”
“I know, I know, I was wrong.”
“You bet you were wrong. I shall be very sharp on that sort of thing in the future, Spode.”
“Yes, yes, I understand.”
“I have not been at all satisfied with your behavior since I came to this house. The way you were looking at me at dinner. You may think people don’t notice these things, but they do.”
“Of course, of course.”
“And calling me a miserable worm.”
“I’m sorry I called you a miserable worm, Miss Rosenby. I spoke without thinking.”
“Always think, Spode. Well, that is all. You may withdraw.”
“Good night, Miss Rosenby.”
“Good night, Spode.”
He hurried out with a bowed head, and I turned to Miss Maclay. She gazed at me with the air of one who has been seeing a vision. And I suppose the whole affair must have been extraordinarily impressive to the casual bystander.
“Willow! What was all that about?”
I waved a nonchalant hand.
“Oh, I just put it across the fellow. Merely asserting myself. One has to take a firm line with chaps like Spode.”
“Who is Ilyria?”
“Ah, there you’ve got me. For information on that point you will have to apply to Giles. And it won’t be any good, because club rules are rigid and members are permitted only to go so far. Giles,” I went on, giving credit where credit was due as is my custom, “came to me some little while back and told me that I had only to inform Spode that I knew all about Ilyria to see him curl up like a burnt feather.” Here I paused to muse a bit on the triumph of having seen Spode do just that. Then another thought occurred to me. “Dearest, not that I’m not thrilled to the moon and back to see you but, what are you doing here?”
“The telegram, darling.”
“Telegram?”
“Yes, the one you’d sent saying that you could see no way to fetch the cow-creamer out from Sir Travers’ custody.”
“Ah,” I said.
“I realized how awfully unfair it had been of me to ask you to undertake such a task without aide. I made arrangements to come down as quickly as I was able.”
“Did you alert Giles to your plans? Or anyone here at Totleigh Towers? There mayn’t be a room ready for you, and I fear it is likely that Sir Quentin won’t take kindly to surprise guests.”
Here she blushed and came over all rosy. Consequently, my heart did a little jig whilst accompanying itself in song. This was a common result of Miss Maclay coming over rosy in my company.
“I’m afraid I didn’t notify anyone,” she said. “I sort of just thought… well, it’s amazing what you can get away with when you’re viewed as an ‘uncouth American’. Besides,” she continued, “if there is no room available for me, I suppose I shall simply have to bunk with you. As long as you have no objection.”
Here she fluttered her eyelashes at me and I felt my insides knock together and become jelly. This too was the typical outcome of her fluttering eyelashes in my vicinity.
“I think we both know that the quantity of my objections to such a proposal is equal to or lesser than nil,” I replied, with what I imagine was likely an expression similar to that of a satisfied piglet.
“Excellent,” she said. “Now, dearest, I feel as though I may have missed a few pages out of one of your more interesting mystery books. Can you bring me up to speed on the plot so far?”
“Indeed.” I offered her my elbow and she looped her arm through mine. We set off on a turn about the halls of the manor house while I quietly regaled her of all the events thus far. By the time we’d reached the safety of my room, I’d concluded the story with our recent collision in the front hall.
Tara drew a deep breath. A sort of Soul’s Awakening look had come over her face.
“Willow,” she said, “do you know what this means?”
“Means, darling one?”
“Now that you’ve got the goods on Spode, the only obstacle to your sneaking that cow-creamer has been removed. You can stroll down and collect it tonight.”
I shook my head regretfully. I had been afraid she was going to take that view of the matter. It compelled me to dash the cup of joy from her lips, always an unpleasant thing to have to do to a companion whose lips have frequently brought one’s own happiness.
“No,” I said gently, “there I fear you’re wrong. Spode may have ceased being a danger to traffic, but that doesn’t alter the fact that Fifi still has the notebook. Before taking any steps in the direction of the cow-creamer, I have got to get it.”
“But why? You’ve already told me that Anya Jenkins has broken off her engagement with Lumpy. I thought the snag was that Fifi might cause the engagement to be broken off by showing Old Travers the book. But if it’s broken already—”
I shook the bean again.
“My beautiful faulty reasoner,” I said, “you miss the gist. As long as Fifi retains that book, it cannot be shown to Miss Jenkins. And only by showing it to Miss Jenkins can Lumpy prove to her that his motive in pinching Fifi’s legs was not what she supposed. And only by proving to her that his motive was not what she supposed can he square himself and effect a reconciliation. And only if he squares himself and effects a reconciliation can we avoid the distasteful necessity of dodging my Aunt Sheila teeing you up to marry Lumpy yourself and all of the attention she would send our way after you’ve politely declined. No, I repeat. Before doing anything else, I have got to have that book.”
My pitiless analysis of the situation had its effect. It was plain from her manner that she had got the strength. For a space, she stood nibbling her lower lip in silence, frowning like a girl who has drained the bitter cup. Dash it all, she was adorable.
“Well, Willow, how are you going to get it?”
“I propose to search her room.”
“What’s the good of that?”
“My dove, Lumpy’s investigations have already revealed that the thing is not on her person. Reasoning closely, we reach the conclusion that it must be in her room.”
“But, dearest, do you even know where her room is? Even with my limited experience, I can see the size of this estate is quite massive. And even if you found her apartment, whereabouts in it might she have hidden the notebook? You can be sure that she’s done a good job of concealing it. It won’t be anywhere obvious.”
As a matter of fact, I hadn’t thought of that. I imagine my sharp, “Oh, ah!” must have revealed this.
“Oh, well, search her room if you like, darling. There’s no real harm in it. In the meanwhile, I’ll see to having my bags sent up and if I might find anything for a late-supper. I didn’t have the opportunity to eat on the train.”
She placed a little kiss on my temple and passed along back out of the room. And I, somewhat discomposed, for I had thought I had got everything neatly planned out and it was a bit of a jar to find that I hadn’t, sat down and began to bend the brain. I took up my goose-flesher again and, by Jove, I hadn’t read more than half a page when I uttered a cry. I had come upon a significant passage.
“Giles,” I said, addressing him as he entered a moment later, “I have come upon a significant passage.”
“Miss?”
I saw that I had been too abrupt, and that footnotes would be required.
“In this thriller I’m reading,” I explained. “But wait. Before showing it to you, I would like to pay you a stately tribute for the accuracy of your information
re Spode. A hearty vote of thanks. Spode
qua menace, is a spent egg. He has dropped out and ceased to function.”
“That is very gratifying, miss.”
“Most. But we are still facing the great obstacle that young Fifi continues in possession of the notebook. That notebook, Giles, must be re-snitched before we are free to move in any other direction. Were you aware of Miss Maclay’s advent to the manse?”
“Yes, miss. I was just coming to inform you of her arrival in residence. Butterfield, the butler, is concerned that he may not have a room prepared for her before the staff retires for the evening.”
“Ah, well, I suppose she will just have to rough it with me for a night.”
“Most irregular, miss,” he warned.
“Yes, well, one must make certain sacrifices for the good of all, Giles.”
“Indeed, miss. You were saying something about the notebook, miss?”
“Yes. Miss Maclay made the excellent point that if the notebook is concealed in Fifi’s sleeping quarters, it may be anywhere and is undoubtedly well-hidden.”
“That is the difficulty, miss.”
“Quite. But that is where this significant passage comes in. It points the way and set the feet on the right path. I’ll read it to you. The detective is speaking to his pal, and the ‘they’ refers to some bounders who have been ransacking a girl’s room, hoping to find some jewels. Listen attentively, Giles. ‘They seem to have looked everywhere, but they never thought of the top of the cupboard, because’ – note carefully what follows – ‘because it is every woman’s favorite hiding place.’”
I eyed him keenly.
“You see the profound significance of that, Giles?”
“If I interpret your meaning, miss, you are suggesting that Mr. Harrison-Phipps’ notebook may be concealed at the top of the cupboard in Miss Travers’ apartment?”
“Not ‘may’. Giles, ‘must’. I don’t see how it can be concealed anywhere else but. This detective is no fool. If he says a thing is so, it is so.”
“May I enquire, miss, whether you yourself have ever hidden anything at the top of your cupboard?”
“Well, not I, no, Giles. But I’m not ‘every woman’, I think you’ll agree.”
“Undoubtedly, miss.”
“I have the utmost confidence in this detective fellow, and I am prepared to follow his lead without question.”
“But, surely miss, you are not proposing--”
“Yes, I am. I’m going to do it immediately. Fifi has gone to the Working Men’s Institute to play piano accompaniment for Skittle Pin Finn and his colored slides of the Holy Land for the Village Mothers and won’t be back for ages. So now is the time to operate while the coast is clear. Gird up your loins, Giles, and accompany me.”
“Well, really, miss--”
“And don’t say ‘Well, really, miss’. I have had occasion to rebuke you before for this habit of yours of saying ‘Well, really, miss’ in a soupy sort of voice, when I indicate some strategic line of action. Think feudally, Giles. Do you know Fifi’s room?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Then Ho for it!”
The first impression I received on giving the apartment the once-over was that for a young shrimp of shaky moral outlook Fifi had been done pretty well in the matter of sleeping accommodation. Totleigh Towers was one of those country houses which had been built at a time when people planning a little nest had the idea that a bedroom was not a bedroom unless you could give an informal dance for about fifty couples in it, and this sanctum could have accommodated a dozen Fifis. In the rays of the small electric light up in the ceiling, the bally thing seem to stretch for miles in every direction, and the thought that if the detective had not called his shots correctly, Lumpy’s notebook might be concealed anywhere in these great spaces, was chilling to me.
I was standing there, hoping for the best, when my meditations were broken in upon by an odd, gargling sort of noise, and to cut a long story short this proved to proceed from the larynx of the dog Wilkins.
He was standing on the bed, stropping his front paws on the coverlet, and so easy was it to read the message in his eyes that we acted like two minds with but a single thought. At the exact moment when I soared like an eagle onto the chest of drawers, Giles was skimming like a swallow onto the top of the cupboard. The animal hopped from the bed and, advancing into the middle of the room, took a seat, breathing through the nose with a curious whistling sound, and looking at us from under his eyebrows like a Scottish elder rebuking sin from the pulpit.
And there for a while the matter rested.
**********
To Be Continued...