“I suppose we shall never see Wilfred Pigeoncote here now that he has
become heir to the baronetcy and to a lot of money,” observed Mrs. Peter
Pigeoncote regretfully to her husband.
“Well, we can hardly expect to,” he replied, “seeing that we always
choked him off from coming to see us when he was a prospective nobody. I
don’t think I’ve set eyes on him since he was a boy of twelve.”
“There was a reason for not wanting to encourage his acquaintanceship,”
said Mrs. Peter. “With that notorious failing of his he was not the sort
of person one wanted in one’s house.”
“Well, the failing still exists, doesn’t it?” said her husband; “or do
you suppose a reform of character is entailed along with the estate?”
“Oh, of course, there is still that drawback,” admitted the wife, “but
one would like to make the acquaintance of the future head of the family,
if only out of mere curiosity. Besides, cynicism apart, his being rich
will make a difference in the way people will look at his failing. When
a man is absolutely wealthy, not merely well-to-do, all suspicion of
sordid motive naturally disappears; the thing becomes merely a tiresome
malady.”
Wilfrid Pigeoncote had suddenly become heir to his uncle, Sir Wilfrid
Pigeoncote, on the death of his cousin, Major Wilfrid Pigeoncote, who had
succumbed to the after-effects of a polo accident. (A Wilfrid Pigeoncote
had covered himself with honours in the course of Marlborough’s
campaigns, and the name Wilfrid had been a baptismal weakness in the
family ever since.) The new heir to the family dignity and estates was a
young man of about five-and-twenty, who was known more by reputation than
by person to a wide circle of cousins and kinsfolk. And the reputation
was an unpleasant one. The numerous other Wilfrids in the family were
distinguished one from another chiefly by the names of their residences
or professions, as Wilfrid of Hubbledown, and young Wilfrid the Gunner,
but this particular scion was known by the ignominious and expressive
label of Wilfrid the Snatcher. From his late schooldays onward he had
been possessed by an acute and obstinate form of kleptomania; he had the
acquisitive instinct of the collector without any of the collector’s
discrimination. Anything that was smaller and more portable than a
sideboard, and above the value of ninepence, had an irresistible
attraction for him, provided that it fulfilled the necessary condition of
belonging to some one else. On the rare occasions when he was included
in a country-house party, it was usual and almost necessary for his host,
or some member of the family, to make a friendly inquisition through his
baggage on the eve of his departure, to see if he had packed up “by
mistake” any one else’s property. The search usually produced a large
and varied yield.
“This is funny,” said Peter Pigeoncote to his wife, some half-hour after
their conversation; “here’s a telegram from Wilfrid, saying he’s passing
through here in his motor, and would like to stop and pay us his
respects. Can stay for the night if it doesn’t inconvenience us. Signed
‘Wilfrid Pigeoncote.’ Must be the Snatcher; none of the others have a
motor. I suppose he’s bringing us a present for the silver wedding.”
“Good gracious!” said Mrs. Peter, as a thought struck her; “this is
rather an awkward time to have a person with his failing in the house.
All those silver presents set out in the drawing-room, and others coming
by every post; I hardly know what we’ve got and what are still to come.
We can’t lock them all up; he’s sure to want to see them.”
“We must keep a sharp look-out, that’s all,” said Peter reassuringly.
“But these practised kleptomaniacs are so clever,” said his wife,
apprehensively, “and it will be so awkward if he suspects that we are
watching him.”
Awkwardness was indeed the prevailing note that evening when the passing
traveller was being entertained. The talk flitted nervously and
hurriedly from one impersonal topic to another. The guest had none of
the furtive, half-apologetic air that his cousins had rather expected to
find; he was polite, well-assured, and, perhaps, just a little inclined
to “put on side”. His hosts, on the other hand, wore an uneasy manner
that might have been the hallmark of conscious depravity. In the
drawing-room, after dinner, their nervousness and awkwardness increased.
“Oh, we haven’t shown you the silver-wedding presents,” said Mrs. Peter,
suddenly, as though struck by a brilliant idea for entertaining the
guest; “here they all are. Such nice, useful gifts. A few duplicates,
of course.”
“Seven cream jugs,” put in Peter.
“Yes, isn’t it annoying,” went on Mrs. Peter; “seven of them. We feel
that we must live on cream for the rest of our lives. Of course, some of
them can be changed.”
Wilfrid occupied himself chiefly with such of the gifts as were of
antique interest, carrying one or two of them over to the lamp to examine
their marks. The anxiety of his hosts at these moments resembled the
solicitude of a cat whose newly born kittens are being handed round for
inspection.
“Let me see; did you give me back the mustard-pot? This is its place
here,” piped Mrs. Peter.
“Sorry. I put it down by the claret-jug,” said Wilfrid, busy with
another object.
“Oh, just let me have the sugar-sifter again,” asked Mrs. Peter, dogged
determination showing through her nervousness; “I must label it who it
comes from before I forget.”
Vigilance was not completely crowned with a sense of victory. After they
had said “Good-night” to their visitor, Mrs. Peter expressed her
conviction that he had taken something.
“I fancy, by his manner, that there was something up,” corroborated her
husband; “do you miss anything?”
Mrs. Peters hastily counted the array of gifts.
“I can only make it thirty-four, and I think it should be thirty-five,”
she announced; “I can’t remember if thirty-five includes the Archdeacon’s
cruet-stand that hasn’t arrived yet.”
“How on earth are we to know?” said Peter. “The mean pig hasn’t brought
us a present, and I’m hanged if he shall carry one off.”
“To-morrow, when he’s having his bath,” said Mrs. Peter excitedly, “he’s
sure to leave his keys somewhere, and we can go through his portmanteau.
It’s the only thing to do.”
On the morrow an alert watch was kept by the conspirators behind
half-closed doors, and when Wilfrid, clad in a gorgeous bath-robe, had
made his way to the bath-room, there was a swift and furtive rush by two
excited individuals towards the principal guest-chamber. Mrs. Peter kept
guard outside, while her husband first made a hurried and successful
search for the keys, and then plunged at the portmanteau with the air of
a disagreeably conscientious Customs official. The quest was a brief
one; a silver cream jug lay embedded in the folds of some zephyr shirts.
“The cunning brute,” said Mrs. Peters; “he took a cream jug because there
were so many; he thought one wouldn’t be missed. Quick, fly down with it
and put it back among the others.”
Wilfrid was late in coming down to breakfast, and his manner showed
plainly that something was amiss.
“It’s an unpleasant thing to have to say,” he blurted out presently, “but
I’m afraid you must have a thief among your servants. Something’s been
taken out of my portmanteau. It was a little present from my mother and
myself for your silver wedding. I should have given it to you last night
after dinner, only it happened to be a cream jug, and you seemed annoyed
at having so many duplicates, so I felt rather awkward about giving you
another. I thought I’d get it changed for something else, and now it’s
gone.”
“Did you say it was from your _mother_ and yourself?” asked Mr. and Mrs.
Peter almost in unison. The Snatcher had been an orphan these many
years.
“Yes, my mother’s at Cairo just now, and she wrote to me at Dresden to
try and get you something quaint and pretty in the old silver line, and I
pitched on this cream jug.”
Both the Pigeoncotes had turned deadly pale. The mention of Dresden had
thrown a sudden light on the situation. It was Wilfrid the Attache, a
very superior young man, who rarely came within their social horizon,
whom they had been entertaining unawares in the supposed character of
Wilfrid the Snatcher. Lady Ernestine Pigeoncote, his mother, moved in
circles which were entirely beyond their compass or ambitions, and the
son would probably one day be an Ambassador. And they had rifled and
despoiled his portmanteau! Husband and wife looked blankly and
desperately at one another. It was Mrs. Peter who arrived first at an
inspiration.
“How dreadful to think there are thieves in the house! We keep the
drawing-room locked up at night, of course, but anything might be carried
off while we are at breakfast.”
She rose and went out hurriedly, as though to assure herself that the
drawing-room was not being stripped of its silverware, and returned a
moment later, bearing a cream jug in her hands.
“There are eight cream jugs now, instead of seven,” she cried; “this one
wasn’t there before. What a curious trick of memory, Mr. Wilfrid! You
must have slipped downstairs with it last night and put it there before
we locked up, and forgotten all about having done it in the morning.”
“One’s mind often plays one little tricks like that,” said Mr. Peter,
with desperate heartiness. “Only the other day I went into the town to
pay a bill, and went in again next day, having clean forgotten that I’d—”
“It is certainly the jug I bought for you,” said Wilfrid, looking closely
at it; “it was in my portmanteau when I got my bath-robe out this
morning, before going to my bath, and it was not there when I unlocked
the portmanteau on my return. Some one had taken it while I was away
from the room.”
The Pigeoncotes had turned paler than ever. Mrs. Peter had a final
inspiration.
“Get me my smelling-salts, dear,” she said to her husband; “I think
they’re in the dressing-room.”
Peter dashed out of the room with glad relief; he had lived so long
during the last few minutes that a golden wedding seemed within
measurable distance.
Mrs. Peter turned to her guest with confidential coyness.
“A diplomat like you will know how to treat this as if it hadn’t
happened. Peter’s little weakness; it runs in the family.”
“Good Lord! Do you mean to say he’s a kleptomaniac, like Cousin
Snatcher?”
“Oh, not exactly,” said Mrs. Peter, anxious to whitewash her husband a
little greyer than she was painting him. “He would never touch anything
he found lying about, but he can’t resist making a raid on things that
are locked up. The doctors have a special name for it. He must have
pounced on your portmanteau the moment you went to your bath, and taken
the first thing he came across. Of course, he had no motive for taking a
cream jug; we’ve already got _seven_, as you know—not, of course, that we
don’t value the kind of gift you and your mother—hush here’s Peter
coming.”
Mrs. Peter broke off in some confusion, and tripped out to meet her
husband in the hall.
“It’s all right,” she whispered to him; “I’ve explained everything.
Don’t say anything more about it.”
“Brave little woman,” said Peter, with a gasp of relief; “I could never
have done it.”
* * * * *
Diplomatic reticence does not necessarily extend to family affairs.
Peter Pigeoncote was never able to understand why Mrs. Consuelo van
Bullyon, who stayed with them in the spring, always carried two very
obvious jewel-cases with her to the bath-room, explaining them to any one
she chanced to meet in the corridor as her manicure and face-massage set.