the sleepy street in the June sunshine, boiling, as Mr Meggs had done, with indignation. She, too, had been shaken to the core. It was her intention to fulfil her duty by posting the letters which had been entrusted to her, and then to quit for ever the service of one who, for six years a model employer, had at last forgotten himself and showed his true nature.
Her meditations were interrupted by a hoarse shout in her rear; and, turning, she perceived the model employer running rapidly towards her. His face was scarlet, his eyes wild, and he wore no hat.
Miss Pillenger’s mind worked swiftly. She took in the situation in a flash. Unrequited, guilty love had sapped Mr Meggs’s reason, and she was to be the victim of his fury. She had read of scores of similar cases in the newspapers. How little she had ever imagined that she would be the heroine of one of these dramas of passion.
She looked for one brief instant up and down the street. Nobody was in sight. With a loud cry she began to run.
‘Stop!’
It was the fierce voice of her pursuer. Miss Pillenger increased to third speed. As she did so, she had a vision of headlines.
‘Stop!’ roared Mr Meggs.
‘UNREQUITED PASSION MADE THIS MAN MURDERER,’ thought Miss Pillenger.
‘Stop!’
‘CRAZED WITH LOVE HE SLAYS BEAUTIFUL BLONDE,’ flashed out in letters of crimson on the back of Miss Pillenger’s mind.
‘Stop!’
‘SPURNED, HE STABS HER THRICE.’
To touch the ground at intervals of twenty yards or so—that was the ideal she strove after. She addressed herself to it with all the strength of her powerful mind.
In London, New York, Paris, and other cities where life is brisk, the spectacle of a hatless gentleman with a purple face pursuing his secretary through the streets at a rapid gallop would, of course, have excited little, if any, remark. But in Mr Meggs’s home-town events were of rarer occurrence. The last milestone in the history of his native place had been the visit, two years before, of Bingley’s Stupendous Circus, which had paraded along the main street on its way to the next town, while zealous members of its staff visited the back premises of the houses and removed all the washing from the lines. Since then deep peace had reigned.
Gradually, therefore, as the chase warmed up, citizens of all shapes and sizes began to assemble. Miss Pillenger’s screams and the general appearance of Mr Meggs gave food for thought. Having brooded over the situation, they decided at length to take a hand, with the result that as Mr Meggs’s grasp fell upon Miss Pillenger the grasp of several of his fellow-townsmen fell upon him.
‘Save me!’ said Miss Pillenger.
Mr Meggs pointed speechlessly to the letters, which she still grasped in her right hand. He had taken practically no exercise for twenty years, and the pace had told upon him.
Constable Gooch, guardian of the town’s welfare, tightened his hold on Mr Meggs’s arm, and desired explanations.
‘He—he was going to murder me,’ said Miss Pillenger.
‘Kill him,’ advised an austere bystander.
‘What do you mean you were going to murder the lady?’ inquired Constable Gooch.
Mr Meggs found speech.
‘I—I—I—I only wanted those letters.’
‘What for?’
‘They’re mine.’
‘You charge her with stealing ‘em?’
‘He gave them me to post with his own hands,’ cried Miss Pillenger.
‘I know I did, but I want them back.’
By this time the constable, though age had to some extent dimmed his sight, had recognized beneath the perspiration, features which, though they were distorted, were nevertheless those of one whom he respected as a leading citizen.
‘Why, Mr Meggs!’ he said.
This identification by one in authority calmed, if it a little disappointed, the crowd. What it was they did not know, but, it was apparently not a murder, and they began to drift off.
‘Why don’t you give Mr Meggs his letters when he asks you, ma’am?’ said the constable.
Miss Pillenger drew herself up haughtily.
‘Here are your letters, Mr Meggs, I hope we shall never meet again.’
Mr Meggs nodded. That was his view, too.
All things work together for good. The following morning Mr Meggs awoke from a dreamless sleep with a feeling that some curious change had taken place in him. He was abominably stiff, and to move his limbs was pain, but down in the centre of his being there was a novel sensation of lightness. He could have declared that he was happy.
Wincing, he dragged himself out of bed and limped to the window. He threw it open. It was a perfect morning.
