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-blonde 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 pyjams in this damn cold climate? There, don’t you worry. I’ll drop in on you later and we’ll have a jolly old powwow, 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
