It was a feverish and excited Eliza that Kathleen found in the kitchen
when she tripped downstairs after the soup course. On a large platter
the cook had built a kind of untidy thicket of parsley and chopped
celery, eked out with lettuce leaves. Ambushed in this were lurking
a number of very pallid and bluish-looking eggs, with a nondescript
stuffing bulging out of them.
“I forgot to measure the yolks, Miss,” wailed Eliza. “That's why the
stuffing don't fit. Shall I throw a dash of rum on board to stiffen 'em
up?”
In spite of her vexation, Kathleen could not help laughing. “No, no,”
she said. “We'll tidy up the nest a bit and send them upstairs.”
“That's grand,” said Eliza, watching Kathleen's quick fingers. “'Tis
a beautiful comely hand you have, miss, one that it's a pleasure to
admire.”
“Now, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “you must not shout up the dumb waiter so.
I distinctly heard you cry out '_This plate's for the parson_!' as you
sent up one of the dishes of soup.”
“If you please, Miss,” said Eliza. “That was because it was the plate I
spilled a spoonful of pepper into, and I thought it had better go to the
cloth than anywhere else. Miss Kathleen, I have something very urgent to
say to you before them two counterfeiters upstairs commit any affidavits
or sworn statements.”
“You dish out the eggs, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “and I'll send them up
the dumb waiter. Quick, now! And where's your dessert? Is it ready?”
“All doing finely, Miss,” answered Eliza, but as she opened the oven
door her assurance collapsed. She drew out a cottage pudding, blackened
and burnt to carbon.
“A great success,” said the bogus cook, but holding it on the other side
of her apron so that Kathleen could not see. “Here, I'll just shoot it
up the shaft myself before it gets cold.” She hurried into the pantry,
whisked it into the dumb waiter before Kathleen could catch a glimpse,
and sent it flying aloft.
“That smelt a little burnt, cook,” said Kathleen.
“Just a wee bit crisp on one side, miss.”
Kathleen was in the pantry, with her nose up the dumb-waiter shaft,
sniffing the trail of the cottage pudding and wondering whether she
ought to recall it for inspection, when Eliza, turning toward the back
door, saw the gas-man on the threshold. The cook's mind moved rapidly in
this emergency. She knew that if Priapus found himself face to face with
Kathleen, dangerous exposures would follow at once.
“Mary,” she whispered to the maid, who had just come down from upstairs,
“run tell the Mistress the gas-man is here again. I'll send him down
the cellar.” And while Kathleen was still in the pantry and before the
pseudo gas-man could demur, Eliza seized him by the coat and hurried
him across the kitchen to the cellar door. She opened this and pointed
downstairs. The bewildered gas-man disappeared down the steps and Eliza
closed the door and turned the key.
“Now, Miss,” said Eliza. “I have something very serious to say to you--”
Just at that moment she saw the clerical black of the Reverend Mr.
Carter coming down the kitchen stairs.
“--and that is, we'd best get this fruit up without delay,” and seizing
a large bowl of apples, oranges, and bananas, she passed it to Kathleen
and backed her into the pantry again. Kathleen unsuspectingly pushed the
fruit up the dumb waiter and meanwhile it took no more than an instant
for Eliza to take the curate by the arm, motion him to silence, and push
him toward the cellar door.
“He's down there,” she whispered, and Carter innocently followed his
fellow Scorpion. Again Eliza closed the door and turned the key.
“Well, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “I don't think you're much of a cook, but
you're a willing worker.”
“Miss Kathleen,” said the cook, who was now more anxious than ever
to cleanse her bosom of much perilous stuff, “are you very down on
practical jokes?”
“Practical jokes? Why, yes, Eliza. I think they are the lowest form of
humour. Good gracious! I do believe we've forgotten the coffee! Have you
got it ready?”
“Yes, Miss; yes, Miss; right here,” said Eliza, bustling to the stove.
“But don't you think, miss, that a frank confession atones for a great
deal?”
“Really, Eliza, you are the most priceless creature! I don't wonder
Joe was taken with you! Hush! There's the front-door bell; what do you
suppose that is?”
They both listened, Kathleen at the dumb-waiter shaft and Eliza at the
kitchen door. Eliza started to say something, but Kathleen waved her
to be quiet. A heavy step sounded on the stair, and the agitated Mary
appeared, followed by a huge policeman. Eliza, of course, recognized the
Iron Duke, but the gas-light and the disguise prevented the latter from
knowing his fellow venturer.
“What on earth is the matter?” said Kathleen.
“Please, Miss,” said the blue-coat, “your mother said there's a gas-man
down here and I've been sent by headquarters to take him in charge. I
think he's a sneak thief.”
“There's no such person here, officer,” said Kathleen.
Eliza still kept her sovereign wits about her. She advanced to the
policeman, and whispering mysteriously “He's in here,” took his sleeve
and led him to the cellar door.
“He's down there,” she repeated; “put the cuffs on him, quick!” She
opened the door, and the doubtful policeman, hypnotized by her decision,
stepped on to the cellar stairs. The door closed behind him, and again
Eliza turned the key.
“What does all this mean?” demanded Kathleen, angrily. “Has everybody
gone daft? Eliza, ever since you came into the house, there has been
nothing but turmoil. I wish you would explain. Why have you sent the
policeman into the cellar?”
“There's three dangerous counterfeiters down there, Miss,” said Eliza.
“I want to tell you the truth about this, Miss Kathleen, before that
American gets down here--he's bound to be here soon. He's the worst of
the lot.”
“Open that door at once!” said Kathleen, stamping her foot. “I don't
know what on earth you mean by counterfeiters, but if there are any down
there, let's have them up, and see what they have to say.”
The dining-room bell rang, and Mary instinctively hurried upstairs. At
the same moment Blair ran down, three steps at a time, and bounded into
the kitchen. He started when he saw Eliza.
“Are you all right, Miss Kent?” he asked, anxiously. “I've been so
worried about you. Is that gas-man still here? I think I can smell gas
escaping. Can I help in any way?”
“What you smell is a burnt cottage pudding,” replied Kathleen. “There's
a policeman in the cellar, I wish you'd call him up. I have a great mind
to ask him to take Eliza in charge. I don't think she's quite right.”
Blair looked at Eliza closely.
“I agree with you, Miss Kathleen,” he said. “She looks like a bad egg to
me--a devilled egg, in fact. Which is the cellar door, cook?”
Eliza saw her chance.
“Right here, sir,” she said, taking hold of the door knob. She swung the
door open.
“Looks very dark,” said Blair. “I can't quite see the step. Where is
it?”
Eliza, eager to add this last specimen to her anthology in the cellar,
stepped forward to point out the stairway. With one lusty push Blair
shoved her through the door, and banged it to. He turned the key in the
lock and thrust it into his pocket.
“Miss Kent,” he said, “I'm afraid you must think us all crazy. If you
will only let me have five minutes' uninterrupted talk with you, I can
explain these absurd misadventures. Please, won't you let me?”
“To tell you the truth,” said Kathleen, “I'm hungry. I've had only
a plate of soup, and that was--counterfeit. I think that mad woman
intended it for the curate, for whom she had conceived a dislike.”
“Let's go up and sit in the dining-room, and I can talk while you eat.”
At that moment Mrs. Kent's voice sounded at the top of the stairs.
“Kathleen, dear, is everything all right?”
“Yes, Mother,” called Kathleen in the same silvery soprano that set
Blair's heart dancing.
“Your father wants Mr. Blair to come up to the drawing-room and talk to
him. He wants to tell him about the Battle of Wolverhampton.”