--AND HIS DAUGHTER MUCH-AFRAID
_The women also looked pale and wan._
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS
Mr. Bunter brought Parker's letter up to Lord Peter in bed on the
Wednesday morning. The house was almost deserted, everybody having gone
to attend the police-court proceedings at Northallerton. The thing
would be purely formal, of course, but it seemed only proper that the
family should be fully represented. The Dowager Duchess, indeed, was
there--she had promptly hastened to her son's side and was living
heroically in furnished lodgings, but the younger Duchess thought her
mother-in-law more energetic than dignified. There was no knowing what
she might do if left to herself. She might even give an interview to a
newspaper reporter. Besides, at these moments of crisis a wife's right
place is at her husband's side. Lady Mary was ill, and nothing could be
said about that, and if Peter chose to stay smoking cigarettes in his
pajamas while his only brother was undergoing public humiliation, that
was only what might be expected. Peter took after his mother. How that
eccentric strain had got into the family her grace could not imagine,
for the Dowager came of a good Hampshire family; there must have been
some foreign blood somewhere. Her own duty was clear, and she would do
it.
Lord Peter was awake, and looked rather fagged, as though he had been
sleuthing in his sleep. Mr. Bunter wrapped him solicitously in a
brilliant Oriental robe, and placed the tray on his knees.
"Bunter," said Lord Peter rather fretfully, "your _café au lait_ is the
one tolerable incident in this beastly place."
"Thank you, my lord. Very chilly again this morning, my lord, but not
actually raining."
Lord Peter frowned over his letter.
"Anything in the paper, Bunter?"
"Nothing urgent, my lord. A sale next week at Northbury Hall--Mr.
Fleetwhite's library, my lord--a Caxton _Confessio Amantis_--"
"What's the good of tellin' me that when we're stuck up here for God
knows how long? I wish to heaven I'd stuck to books and never touched
crime. Did you send those specimens up to Lubbock?"
"Yes, my lord," said Bunter gently. Dr. Lubbock was the "analytical
gentleman."
"Must have facts," said Lord Peter, "facts. When I was a small boy I
always hated facts. Thought of 'em as nasty, hard things, all knobs.
Uncompromisin'."
"Yes, my lord. My old mother--"
"Your mother, Bunter? I didn't know you had one. I always imagined you
were turned out ready-made, so to speak. 'Scuse me. Infernally rude of
me. Beg your pardon, I'm sure."
"Not at all, my lord. My mother lives in Kent, my lord, near Maidstone.
Seventy-five, my lord, and an extremely active woman for her years, if
you'll excuse my mentioning it. I was one of seven."
"That is an invention, Bunter. I know better. You are unique. But I
interrupted you. You were goin' to tell me about your mother."
"She always says, my lord, that facts are like cows. If you look
them in the face hard enough they generally run away. She is a very
courageous woman, my lord."
Lord Peter stretched out his hand impulsively, but Mr. Bunter was too
well trained to see it. He had, indeed, already begun to strop a razor.
Lord Peter suddenly bundled out of bed with a violent jerk and sped
across the landing to the bathroom.
Here he revived sufficiently to lift up his voice in "Come unto these
Yellow Sands." Thence, feeling in a Purcellish mood, he passed to "I
Attempt from Love's Fever to Fly," with such improvement of spirits
that, against all custom, he ran several gallons of cold water into the
bath and sponged himself vigorously. Wherefore, after a rough toweling,
he burst explosively from the bathroom, and caught his shin somewhat
violently against the lid of a large oak chest which stood at the head
of the staircase--so violently, indeed, that the lid lifted with the
shock and shut down with a protesting bang.
Lord Peter stopped to say something expressive and to caress his
leg softly with the palm of his hand. Then a thought struck him. He
set down his towels, soap, sponge, loofah, bath-brush, and other
belongings, and quietly lifted the lid of the chest.
Whether, like the heroine of _Northanger Abbey_, he expected to
find anything gruesome inside was not apparent. It is certain that,
like her, he beheld nothing more startling than certain sheets and
counterpanes neatly folded at the bottom. Unsatisfied, he lifted the
top one of these gingerly and inspected it for a few moments in the
light of the staircase window. He was just returning it to its place,
whistling softly the while, when a little hiss of indrawn breath caused
him to look up with a start.
His sister was at his elbow. He had not heard her come, but she stood
there in her dressing-gown, her hands clutched together on her breast.
Her blue eyes were dilated till they looked almost black, and her skin
seemed nearly the color of her ash-blond hair. Wimsey stared at her
over the sheet he held in his arms, and the terror in her face passed
over into his, stamping them suddenly with the mysterious likeness of
blood-relationship.
Peter's own impression was that he stared "like a stuck pig" for about
a minute. He knew, as a matter of fact, that he had recovered himself
in a fraction of a second. He dropped the sheet into the chest and
stood up.
"Hullo, Polly, old thing," he said, "where've you been hidin' all this
time? First time I've seen you. 'Fraid you've been havin' a pretty thin
time of it."
He put his arm round her, and felt her shrink.
"What's the matter?" he demanded. "What's up, old girl? Look here,
Mary, we've never seen enough of each other, but I am your brother. Are
you in trouble? Can't I--"
"Trouble?" she said. "Why, you silly old Peter, of course I'm in
trouble. Don't you know they've killed my man and put my brother
in prison? Isn't that enough to be in trouble about?" She laughed,
and Peter suddenly thought, "She's talking like somebody in a
blood-and-thunder novel." She went on more naturally. "It's all right,
Peter, truly--only my head's so bad. I really don't know what I'm
doing. What are you after? You made such a noise, I came out. I thought
it was a door banging."
"You'd better toddle back to bed," said Lord Peter. "You're gettin' all
cold. Why do girls wear such mimsy little pajimjams in this damn cold
climate? There, don't you worry. I'll drop in on you later and we'll
have a jolly old pow-wow, what?"
"Not today--not today, Peter. I'm going mad, I think." ("Sensation
fiction again," thought Peter.) "Are they trying Gerald today?"
"Not exactly trying," said Peter, urging her gently along to her room.
"It's just formal, y'know. The jolly old magistrate bird hears the
charge read, and then old Murbles pops up and says please he wants only
formal evidence given as he has to instruct counsel. That's Biggy,
y'know. Then they hear the evidence of arrest, and Murbles says old
Gerald reserves his defense. That's all till the Assizes--evidence
before the Grand Jury--a lot of bosh! That'll be early next month, I
suppose. You'll have to buck up and be fit by then."
Mary shuddered.
"No--no! Couldn't I get out of it? I couldn't go through it all again.
I should be sick. I'm feeling awful. No, don't come in. I don't want
you. Ring the bell for Ellen. No, let go; go away! I don't want you,
Peter!"
Peter hesitated, a little alarmed.
"Much better not, my lord, if you'll excuse me," said Bunter's voice
at his ear. "Only produce hysterics," he added, as he drew his
master gently from the door. "Very distressing for both parties, and
altogether unproductive of results. Better to wait for the return of
her grace, the Dowager."
"Quite right," said Peter. He turned back to pick up his paraphernalia,
but was dexterously forestalled. Once again he lifted the lid of the
chest and looked in.
"What did you say you found on that skirt, Bunter?"
"Gravel, my lord, and silver sand."
"Silver sand."
* * * * *
Behind Riddlesdale Lodge the moor stretched starkly away and upward.
The heather was brown and wet, and the little streams had no color in
them. It was six o'clock, but there was no sunset. Only a paleness
had moved behind the thick sky from east to west all day. Lord Peter,
tramping back after a long and fruitless search for tidings of the
man with the motor-cycle, voiced the dull suffering of his gregarious
spirit. "I wish old Parker was here," he muttered, and squelched down a
sheep-track.
He was making, not directly for the Lodge, but for a farmhouse about
two and a half miles distant from it, known as Grider's Hole. It lay
almost due north of Riddlesdale village, a lonely outpost on the edge
of the moor, in a valley of fertile land between two wide swells of
heather. The track wound down from the height called Whemmeling Fell,
skirted a vile swamp, and crossed the little river Ridd about half a
mile before reaching the farm. Peter had small hope of hearing any
news at Grider's Hole, but he was filled with a sullen determination
to leave no stone unturned. Privately, however, he felt convinced that
the motor-cycle had come by the high road, Parker's investigations
notwithstanding, and perhaps passed directly through King's Fenton
without stopping or attracting attention. Still, he had said he would
search the neighborhood, and Grider's Hole was in the neighborhood. He
paused to relight his pipe, then squelched steadily on. The path was
marked with stout white posts at regular intervals, and presently with
hurdles. The reason for this was apparent as one came to the bottom
of the valley, for only a few yards on the left began the stretch of
rough, reedy tussocks, with slobbering black bog between them, in which
anything heavier than a water-wagtail would speedily suffer change into
a succession of little bubbles. Wimsey stooped for an empty sardine-tin
which lay, horridly battered, at his feet, and slung it idly into the
quag. It struck the surface with a noise like a wet kiss, and vanished
instantly. With that instinct which prompts one, when depressed, to
wallow in every circumstance of gloom, Peter leaned sadly upon the
hurdles and abandoned himself to a variety of shallow considerations
upon (1) The vanity of human wishes; (2) Mutability; (3) First love;
(4) The decay of idealism; (5) The aftermath of the Great War; (6)
Birth-control; and (7) The fallacy of free-will. This was his nadir,
however. Realizing that his feet were cold and his stomach empty, and
that he had still some miles to go, he crossed the stream on a row of
slippery stepping-stones and approached the gate of the farm, which was
not an ordinary five-barred one, but solid and uncompromising. A man
was leaning over it, sucking a straw. He made no attempt to move at
Wimsey's approach. "Good evening," said that nobleman in a sprightly
manner, laying his hand on the catch. "Chilly, ain't it?"
The man made no reply, but leaned more heavily, and breathed. He wore a
rough coat and breeches, and his leggings were covered with manure.
"Seasonable, of course, what?" said Peter. "Good for the sheep, I
daresay. Makes their wool curl, and so on."
The man removed the straw and spat in the direction of Peter's right
boot.
"Do you lose many animals in the bog?" went on Peter, carelessly
unlatching the gate, and leaning upon it in the opposite direction. "I
see you have a good wall all round the house. Must be a bit dangerous
in the dark, what, if you're thinkin' of takin' a little evenin' stroll
with a friend?"
The man spat again, pulled his hat over his forehead, and said briefly:
"What doost 'a want?"
"Well," said Peter, "I thought of payin' a little friendly call on
Mr.--on the owner of this farm, that is to say. Country neighbors, and
all that. Lonely kind of country, don't you see. Is he in, d'ye think?"
The man grunted.
"I'm glad to hear it," said Peter; "it's so uncommonly jolly findin'
all you Yorkshire people so kind and hospitable, what? Never mind who
you are, always a seat at the fireside and that kind of thing. Excuse
me, but do you know you're leanin' on the gate so as I can't open it?
I'm sure it's a pure oversight, only you mayn't realize that just
where you're standin' you get the maximum of leverage. What an awfully
charmin' house this is, isn't it? All so jolly stark and grim and all
the rest of it. No creepers or little rose-grown porches or anything
suburban of that sort. Who lives in it?"
The man surveyed him up and down for some moments, and replied, "Mester
Grimethorpe."
"No, does he now?" said Lord Peter. "To think of that. Just the
fellow I want to see. Model farmer, what? Wherever I go throughout
the length and breadth of the North Riding I hear of Mr. Grimethorpe.
'Grimethorpe's butter is the best'; 'Grimethorpe's fleeces Never go
to pieces'; 'Grimethorpe's pork Melts on the fork'; 'For Irish stews
Take Grimethorpe's ewes'; 'A tummy lined with Grimethorpe's beef,
Never, never comes to grief.' It has been my life's ambition to see Mr.
Grimethorpe in the flesh. And you no doubt are his sturdy henchman and
right-hand man. You leap from bed before the breaking-day, To milk the
kine amid the scented hay. You, when the shades of evening gather deep,
Home from the mountain lead the mild-eyed sheep. You, by the ingle's
red and welcoming blaze, Tell your sweet infants tales of olden days! A
wonderful life, though a trifle monotonous p'raps in the winter. Allow
me to clasp your honest hand."
Whether the man was moved by this lyric outburst, or whether the
failing light was not too dim to strike a pale sheen from the metal in
Lord Peter's palm, at any rate he moved a trifle back from the gate.
"Thanks awfully, old bean," said Peter, stepping briskly past him. "I
take it I shall find Mr. Grimethorpe in the house?"
The man said nothing till Wimsey had proceeded about a dozen yards up
the flagged path, then he hailed him, but without turning round.
"Mester!"
"Yes, old thing?" said Peter affably, returning.
"Happen he'll set dog on tha."
"You don't say so?" said Peter. "The faithful hound welcomes the return
of the prodigal. Scene of family rejoicing. 'My own long lost boy!'
Sobs and speeches, beer all round for the delighted tenantry. Glees
by the old fireside, till the rafters ring and all the smoked hams
tumble down to join in the revelry. Good night, sweet Prince, until the
cows come home and the dogs eat Jezebel in the portion of Jezreel when
the hounds of spring are on winter's traces. I suppose," he added to
himself, "they will have finished tea."
As Lord Peter approached the door of the farm his spirits rose. He
enjoyed paying this kind of visit. Although he had taken to detecting
as he might, with another conscience or constitution, have taken to
Indian hemp--for its exhilarating properties--at a moment when life
seemed dust and ashes, he had not primarily the detective temperament.
He expected next to nothing from inquiries at Grider's Hole, and,
if he had, he might probably have extracted all the information he
wanted by a judicious display of Treasury notes to the glum man at
the gate. Parker would in all likelihood have done so; he was paid to
detect and to do nothing else, and neither his natural gifts nor his
education (at Barrow-in-Furness Grammar School) prompted him to stray
into side-tracks at the beck of an ill-regulated imagination. But to
Lord Peter the world presented itself as an entertaining labyrinth of
side-issues. He was a respectable scholar in five or six languages,
a musician of some skill and more understanding, something of an
expert in toxicology, a collector of rare editions, an entertaining
man-about-town, and a common sensationalist. He had been seen at
half-past twelve on a Sunday morning walking in Hyde Park in a top-hat
and frock-coat, reading the _News of the World_. His passion for the
unexplored led him to hunt up obscure pamphlets in the British Museum,
to unravel the emotional history of income-tax collectors, and to find
out where his own drains led to. In this case, the fascinating problem
of a Yorkshire farmer who habitually set the dogs on casual visitors
imperatively demanded investigation in a personal interview. The result
was unexpected.
His first summons was unheeded, and he knocked again. This time there
was a movement, and a surly male voice called out:
"Well, let 'un in then, dang 'un--and dang _thee_," emphasized by the
sound of something falling or thrown across the room.
The door was opened unexpectedly by a little girl of about seven, very
dark and pretty, and rubbing her arm as though the missile had caught
her there. She stood defensively, blocking the threshold, till the same
voice growled impatiently:
"Well, who is it?"
"Good evening," said Wimsey, removing his hat. "I hope you'll excuse me
droppin' in like this. I'm livin' at Riddlesdale Lodge."
"What of it?" demanded the voice. Above the child's head Wimsey saw the
outline of a big, thick-set man smoking in the inglenook of an immense
fireplace. There was no light but the firelight, for the window was
small, and dusk had already fallen. It seemed to be a large room, but a
high oak settle on the farther side of the chimney ran out across it,
leaving a cavern of impenetrable blackness beyond.
"May I come in?" said Wimsey.
"If tha must," said the man ungraciously. "Shoot door, lass; what art
starin' at? Go to thi moother and bid her mend thi manners for thee."
This seemed a case of the pot lecturing the kettle on cleanliness, but
the child vanished hurriedly into the blackness behind the settle, and
Peter walked in.
"Are you Mr. Grimethorpe?" he asked politely.
"What if I am?" retorted the farmer. "_I've_ no call to be ashamed o'
my name."
"Rather not," said Lord Peter, "nor of your farm. Delightful place,
what? My name's Wimsey, by the way--Lord Peter Wimsey, in fact, the
Duke of Denver's brother, y'know. I'm sure I hate interruptin' you--you
must be busy with the sheep and all that--but I thought you wouldn't
mind if I just ran over in a neighborly way. Lonely sort of country,
ain't it? I like to know the people next door, and all that sort of
thing. I'm used to London, you see, where people live pretty thick on
the ground. I suppose very few strangers ever pass this way?"
"None," said Mr. Grimethorpe, with decision.
"Well, perhaps it's as well," pursued Lord Peter. "Makes one appreciate
one's home circle more, what? Often think one sees too many strangers
in town. Nothing like one's family when all's said and done--cozy,
don't you know. You a married man, Mr. Grimethorpe?"
"What the hell's that to you?" growled the farmer, rounding on him with
such ferocity that Wimsey looked about quite nervously for the dogs
before-mentioned.
"Oh, nothin'," he replied, "only I thought that charmin' little girl
might be yours."
"And if I thought she weren't," said Mr. Grimethorpe, "I'd strangle the
bitch and her mother together. What hast got to say to that?"
As a matter of fact, the remark, considered as a conversational
formula, seemed to leave so much to be desired that Wimsey's natural
loquacity suffered a severe check. He fell back, however, on the usual
resource of the male, and offered Mr. Grimethorpe a cigar, thinking to
himself as he did so:
"What a hell of a life the woman must lead."
The farmer declined the cigar with a single word, and was silent.
Wimsey lit a cigarette for himself and became meditative, watching
his companion. He was a man of about forty-five, apparently, rough,
harsh, and weather-beaten, with great ridgy shoulders and short, thick
thighs--a bull-terrier with a bad temper. Deciding that delicate hints
would be wasted on such an organism, Wimsey adopted a franker method.
"To tell the truth, Mr. Grimethorpe," he said, "I didn't blow in
without any excuse at all. Always best to provide oneself with an
excuse for a call, what? Though it's so perfectly delightful to see
you--I mean, no excuse might appear necessary. But fact is, I'm
looking for a young man--a--an acquaintance of mine--who said he'd be
roamin' about this neighborhood some time or other about now. Only
I'm afraid I may have missed him. You see, I've only just got over
from Corsica--interestin' country and all that, Mr. Grimethorpe, but
a trifle out of the way--and from what my friend said I think he must
have turned up here about a week ago and found me out. Just my luck.
But he didn't leave his card, so I can't be quite sure, you see. You
didn't happen to come across him by any chance? Tall fellow with big
feet on a motor-cycle with a side-car. I thought he might have come
rootin' about here. Hullo! d'you know him?"
The farmer's face had become swollen and almost black with rage.
"What day sayst tha?" he demanded thickly.
"I should think last Wednesday night or Thursday morning," said Peter,
with a hand on his heavy malacca cane.
"I knew it," growled Mr. Grimethorpe. "--the slut, and all these dommed
women wi' their dirty ways. Look here, mester. The tyke were a friend
o' thine? Well, I wor at Stapley Wednesday and Thursday--tha knew that,
didn't tha? And so did thi friend, didn't 'un? An' if I hadn't, it'd
'a' bin the worse for 'un. He'd 'a' been in Peter's Pot if I'd 'a' cot
'un, an' that's where tha'll be thesen in a minute, blast tha! And if
I find 'un sneakin' here again, I'll blast every boon in a's body and
send 'un to look for thee there."
And with these surprising words he made for Peter's throat like a
bull-dog.
"That won't do," said Peter, disengaging himself with an ease which
astonished his opponent, and catching his wrist in a grip of mysterious
and excruciating agony. "'Tisn't wise, y'know--might murder a fellow
like that. Nasty business, murder. Coroner's inquest and all that sort
of thing. Counsel for the Prosecution askin' all sorts of inquisitive
questions, and a feller puttin' a string round your neck. Besides,
your method's a bit primitive. Stand still, you fool, or you'll break
your arm. Feelin' better? That's right. Sit down. You'll get into
trouble one of these days, behavin' like that when you're asked a civil
question."
"Get out o' t'house," said Mr. Grimethorpe sullenly.
"Certainly," said Peter. "I have to thank you for a very entertainin'
evenin', Mr. Grimethorpe. I'm sorry you can give me no news of my
friend--"
Mr. Grimethorpe sprang up with a blasphemous ejaculation, and made for
the door, shouting "Jabez!" Lord Peter stared after him for a moment,
and then stared round the room.
"Something fishy here," he said. "Fellow knows somethin'. Murderous
sort of brute. I wonder--"
He peered round the settle, and came face to face with a woman--a dim
patch of whiteness in the thick shadow.
"You?" she said, in a low, hoarse gasp. "You? You are mad to come here.
Quick, quick! He has gone for the dogs."
She placed her two hands on his breast, thrusting him urgently back.
Then, as the firelight fell upon his face, she uttered a stifled shriek
and stood petrified--a Medusa-head of terror.
Medusa was beautiful, says the tale, and so was this woman; a broad
white forehead under massed, dusky hair, black eyes glowing under
straight brows, a wide, passionate mouth--a shape so wonderful
that even in that strenuous moment sixteen generations of feudal
privilege stirred in Lord Peter's blood. His hands closed over hers
instinctively, but she pulled herself hurriedly away and shrank back.
"Madam," said Wimsey, recovering himself, "I don't quite--"
A thousand questions surged up in his mind, but before he could frame
them a long yell, and another, and then another came from the back of
the house.
"Run, run!" she said. "The dogs! My God, my God, what will become of
me? Go, if you don't want to see me killed. Go, go! Have pity!"
"Look here," said Peter, "can't I stay and protect--"
"You can stay and murder me," said the woman. "Go!"
Peter cast Public School tradition to the winds, caught up his stick,
and went. The brutes were at his heels as he fled. He struck the
foremost with his stick, and it dropped back, snarling. The man was
still leaning on the gate, and Grimethorpe's hoarse voice was heard
shouting to him to seize the fugitive. Peter closed with him; there
was a scuffle of dogs and men, and suddenly Peter found himself thrown
bodily over the gate. As he picked himself up and ran, he heard the
farmer cursing the man and the man retorting that he couldn't help it;
then the woman's voice, uplifted in a frightened wail. He glanced over
his shoulder. The man and the woman and a second man who had now joined
the party, were beating the dogs back, and seemed to be persuading
Grimethorpe not to let them through. Apparently their remonstrances had
some effect, for the farmer turned moodily away, and the second man
called the dogs off, with much whip-cracking and noise. The woman said
something, and her husband turned furiously upon her and struck her to
the ground.
Peter made a movement to go back, but a strong conviction that he could
only make matters worse for her arrested him. He stood still, and
waited till she had picked herself up and gone in, wiping the blood and
dirt from her face with her shawl. The farmer looked round, shook his
fist at him, and followed her into the house. Jabez collected the dogs
and drove them back, and Peter's friend returned to lean over the gate.
Peter waited till the door had closed upon Mr. and Mrs. Grimethorpe;
then he pulled out his handkerchief and, in the half-darkness, signaled
cautiously to the man, who slipped through the gate and came slowly
down to him.
"Thanks very much," said Wimsey, putting money into his hand. "I'm
afraid I've done unintentional mischief."
The man looked at the money and at him.
"'Tes t' master's way wi' them as cooms t'look at t'missus," he said.
"Tha's best keep away if so be tha wutna' have her blood on tha heid."
"See here," said Peter, "did you by any chance meet a young man with a
motor-cycle wanderin' round here last Wednesday or thereabouts?"
"Naay. Wednesday? T'wod be day t'mester went to Stapley, Ah reckon,
after machines. Naay, Ah seed nowt."
"All right. If you find anybody who did, let me know. Here's my name,
and I'm staying at Riddlesdale Lodge. Good night, many thanks."
The man took the card from him and slouched back without a word of
farewell.
* * * * *
Lord Peter walked slowly, his coat collar turned up and his hat pulled
over his eyes. This cinematographic episode had troubled his logical
faculty. With an effort he sorted out his ideas and arranged them in
some kind of order.
"First item," said he, "Mr. Grimethorpe. A gentleman who will
stick at nothing. Hefty. Unamiable. Inhospitable. Dominant
characteristic--jealousy of his very astonishing wife. Was at Stapley
last Wednesday and Thursday buying machinery. (Helpful gentleman at
the gate corroborates this, by the way, so that at this stage of the
proceedings one may allow it to be a sound alibi.) Did not, therefore,
see our mysterious friend with the side-car, _if_ he was there. But
is disposed to think he _was_ there, and has very little doubt about
what he came for. Which raises an interestin' point. Why the side-car?
Awkward thing to tour about with. Very good. But if our friend came
after Mrs. G. he obviously didn't take her. Good again.
"Second item, Mrs. Grimethorpe. Very singular item. By Jove!" He paused
meditatively to reconstruct a thrilling moment. "Let us at once admit
that if No. 10 came for the purpose suspected he had every excuse for
it. Well! Mrs. G. goes in terror of her husband, who thinks nothing of
knocking her down on suspicion. I wish to God--but I'd only have made
things worse. Only thing you can do for the wife of a brute like that
is to keep away from her. Hope there won't be murder done. One's enough
at a time. Where was I?
"Yes--well, Mrs. Grimethorpe knows something--and she knows somebody.
She took me for somebody who had every reason for not coming to
Grider's Hole. Where was she, I wonder, while I was talking to
Grimethorpe? She wasn't in the room. Perhaps the child warned her. No,
that won't wash; I told the child who I was. Aha! wait a minute. Do
I see light? She looked out of the window and saw a bloke in an aged
Burberry. No. 10 is a bloke in an aged Burberry. Now, let's suppose
for a moment she takes me for No. 10. What does she do? She sensibly
keeps out of the way--can't think why I'm such a fool as to turn up.
Then, when Grimethorpe runs out shoutin' for the kennel-man, she nips
down with her life in her hands to warn her--her--shall we say boldly
her lover?--to get away. She finds it isn't her lover, but only a
gaping ass of (I fear) a very comin'-on disposition. New compromisin'
position. She tells the ass to save himself and herself by clearin'
out. Ass clears--not too gracefully. The next installment of this
enthrallin' drama will be shown in this theater--when? I'd jolly well
like to know."
He tramped on for some time.
"All the same," he retorted upon himself, "all this throws no light on
what No. 10 was doing at Riddlesdale Lodge."
At the end of his walk he had reached no conclusion.
"Whatever happens," he said to himself, "and if it can be done without
danger to her life, I must see Mrs. Grimethorpe again."