29 Three Men and a Maid

there in the dark. He decided to postpone the knocking on the cupboard door, which had been the signal arranged between himself and Sam, until a more suitable occasion. In the meantime he bounded silently out into the hall, and instantaneously tripped over the portly form of Smith, the bulldog, who, roused from a light sleep to the knowledge that something was going on, and being a dog who always liked to be in the centre of the maelstrom of events, had waddled out to investigate.

By the time Mrs. Hignett had pulled herself together sufficiently to feel brave enough to venture into the hall, Webster’s presence of mind and Smith’s gregariousness had combined to restore that part of the house to its normal nocturnal condition of emptiness. Webster’s stagger had carried him almost up to the green baize door leading to the servants’ staircase, and he proceeded to pass through it without checking his momentum, closely followed by Smith who, now convinced that interesting events were in progress which might possibly culminate in cake, had abandoned the idea of sleep and meant to see the thing through. He gambolled in Webster’s wake up the stairs and along the passage leading to the latter’s room, and only paused when the door was brusquely shut in his face. Upon which he sat down to think the thing over. He was in no hurry. The night was before him, promising, as far as he could judge from the way it had opened, excellent entertainment.

Mrs. Hignett had listened fearfully to the uncouth noises from the hall. The burglars—she had now discovered that there were at least two of them—appeared to be actually romping. The situation had grown beyond her handling. If this troupe of terpsichorean marauders was to be dislodged she must have assistance. It was man’s work. She made a brave dash through the hall, mercifully unmolested: found the stairs: raced up them: and fell through the doorway of her son Eustace’s bedroom like a spent Marathon runner staggering past the winning- post.

2

In the moment which elapsed before either of the two could calm their agitated brains to speech, Eustace became aware, as never before, of the truth of that well-known line, “Peace, perfect Peace, with loved ones far away!”

“Eustace!”

Mrs. Hignett gasped, hand on heart.

“Eustace, there are men in the house!”

This fact was just the one which Eustace had been wondering how to break to her.

“I know,” he said uneasily.

“You know!” Mrs. Hignett stared. “Did you hear them!”

“Hear them?” said Eustace, puzzled.

“The drawing-room window was left open, and there are two burglars in the hall.”

“Oh, I say, no! That’s rather rotten!” said Eustace.

“I saw and heard them. Come with me and arrest them.”

“But I can’t. I’ve sprained my ankle.”

“Sprained your ankle? How very inconvenient! When did you do that?”

“This morning.”

“How did it happen?”

Eustace hesitated.

“I was jumping.”

“Jumping! But—oh!” Mrs. Hignett’s sentence trailed off into a suppressed shriek, as the door opened.

Immediately following on Eustace’s accident, Jane Hubbard had constituted herself his nurse. It was she who had bound up his injured ankle in a manner which the doctor on his arrival had admitted himself unable to improve upon. She had sat with him through the long afternoon. And now, fearing lest a return of the pain might render him sleepless, she had come to bring him a selection of books to see him through the night.

Jane Hubbard was a girl who by nature and training was well adapted to bear shocks. She accepted the advent of Mrs. Hignett without visible astonishment, though inwardly she was wondering who the visitor might be.

“Good evening,” she said, placidly.

Mrs. Hignett, having rallied from her moment of weakness, glared at the new arrival dumbly. She could not place Jane. She had the air of a nurse, and yet she wore no uniform.

“Who are you?” she asked stiffly.

“Who are you?” countered Jane.

“I,” said Mrs. Hignett portentously, “am the owner of this house, and I should be glad to know what you are doing in it. I am Mrs. Horace Hignett.”

A charming smile spread itself over Jane’s finely-cut face.

“I’m so glad to meet you,” she said. “I have heard so much about you.”

“Indeed?” said Mrs. Hignett. “And now I should like to hear a little about you.”

“I’ve read all your books,” said Jane. “I think they’re wonderful.”

In spite of herself, in spite of a feeling that this young woman was straying from the point, Mrs. Hignett could not check a slight influx of amiability. She was an authoress who received a good deal of incense from admirers, but she could always do with a bit more. Besides, most of the incense came by mail. Living a quiet and retired life in the country, it was rarely that she got it handed to her face to face. She melted quite perceptibly. She did not cease to look like a basilisk, but she began to look like a basilisk who has had a good lunch.

“My favorite,” said Jane, who for a week had been sitting daily in a chair in the drawing-room adjoining the table on which the authoress’s complete works were assembled, “is ‘The Spreading Light.’ I do like ‘The Spreading Light!’”

“It was written some years ago,” said Mrs. Hignett with something approaching cordiality, “and I have since revised some of the views I state in it, but I still consider it quite a good text-book.”