Piccadilly Jim

by P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER XVII

  MISS TRIMBLE, DETECTIVE

  Downstairs, in the dining-room, Jimmy was smoking cigarettes andreviewing in his mind the peculiarities of the situation, whenAnn came in.

  "Oh, there you are," said Ann. "I thought you must have goneupstairs."

  "I have been having a delightful and entertaining conversationwith my old chum, Lord Wisbeach."

  "Good gracious! What about?"

  "Oh, this and that."

  "Not about old times?"

  "No, we did not touch upon old times."

  "Does he still believe that you are Jimmy Crocker? I'm sonervous," said Ann, "that I can hardly speak."

  "I shouldn't be nervous," said Jimmy encouragingly. "I don't seehow things could be going better."

  "That's what makes me nervous. Our luck is too good to last. Weare taking such risks. It would have been bad enough withoutSkinner and Lord Wisbeach. At any moment you may make some fatalslip. Thank goodness, aunt Nesta's suspicions have been squashedfor the time being now that Skinner and Lord Wisbeach haveaccepted you as genuine. But then you have only seen them for afew minutes. When they have been with you a little longer, theymay get suspicious themselves. I can't imagine how you managed tokeep it up with Lord Wisbeach. I should have thought he would becertain to say something about the time when you were supposed tobe friends in London. We simply mustn't strain our luck. I wantyou to go straight to aunt Nesta now and ask her to let Jerrycome back."

  "You still refuse to let me take Jerry's place?"

  "Of course I do. You'll find aunt Nesta upstairs."

  "Very well. But suppose I can't persuade her to forgive Jerry?"

  "I think she is certain to do anything you ask. You saw howfriendly she was to you at lunch. I don't see how anything canhave happened since lunch to change her."

  "Very well. I'll go to her now."

  "And when you have seen her, go to the library and wait for me.It's the second room along the passage outside here. I havepromised to drive Lord Wisbeach down to his hotel in my car. Imet him outside just now and he tells me aunt Nesta has invitedhim to stay here, so he wants to go and get his things ready. Ishan't be twenty minutes. I shall come straight back."

  Jimmy found himself vaguely disquieted by this piece ofinformation.

  "Lord Wisbeach is coming to stay here?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "Oh, nothing. Well, I'll go and see Mrs. Pett."

  No traces of the disturbance which had temporarily ruffled thepeace of the drawing-room were to be observed when Jimmy reachedit. The receiver of the telephone was back on its hook, Mrs. Pettback in her chair, the dog Aida back in her basket. Mrs. Pett,her mind at ease now that she had taken the step of summoning Mr.Sturgis, was reading a book, one of her own, and was absorbed init. The dog Aida slumbered noisily.

  The sight of Jimmy, however, roused Mrs. Pett from her literarycalm. To her eye, after what Lord Wisbeach had revealed there wassomething sinister in the very way in which he walked into theroom. He made her flesh creep. In "A Society Thug" (Mobbs andStifien, $1.35 net, all rights of translation reserved, includingthe Scandinavian) she had portrayed just such a man--smooth,specious, and formidable. Instinctively, as she watched Jimmy,her mind went back to the perfectly rotten behaviour of her ownMarsden Tuke (it was only in the last chapter but one that theymanaged to foil his outrageous machinations), and it seemed toher that here was Tuke in the flesh. She had pictured him, sheremembered, as a man of agreeable exterior, the better calculatedto deceive and undo the virtuous; and the fact that Jimmy was apresentable-looking young man only made him appear viler in hereyes. In a word, she could hardly have been in less suitableframe of mind to receive graciously any kind of a request fromhim. She would have suspected ulterior motives if he had askedher the time.

  Jimmy did not know this. He thought that she eyed him a triflefrostily, but he did not attribute this to any suspicion of him.He tried to ingratiate himself by smiling pleasantly. He couldnot have made a worse move. Marsden Tuke's pleasant smile hadbeen his deadliest weapon. Under its influence deluded people hadtrusted him alone with their jewellery and what not.

  "Aunt Nesta," said Jimmy, "I wonder if I might ask you a personalfavour."

  Mrs. Pett shuddered at the glibness with which he brought out thefamiliar name. This was superTuke. Marsden himself, scoundrel ashe was, could not have called her "Aunt Nesta" as smoothly asthat.

  "Yes?" she said at last. She found it difficult to speak.

  "I happened to meet an old friend of mine this morning. He wasvery sorry for himself. It appears that--for excellent reasons,of course--you had dismissed him. I mean Jerry Mitchell."

  Mrs. Pett was now absolutely appalled. The conspiracy seemed togrow more complicated every moment. Already its ramificationsembraced this man before her, a trusted butler, and her husband'slate physical instructor. Who could say where it would end? Shehad never liked Jerry Mitchell, but she had never suspected himof being a conspirator. Yet, if this man who called himself JimmyCrocker was an old friend of his, how could he be anything else?

  "Mitchell," Jimmy went on, unconscious of the emotions which hisevery word was arousing in his hearer's bosom, "told me aboutwhat happened yesterday. He is very depressed. He said he couldnot think how he happened to behave in such an abominable way. Heentreated me to put in a word for him with you. He begged me totell you how he regretted the brutal assault, and asked me tomention the fact that his record had hitherto been blameless."Jimmy paused. He was getting no encouragement, and seemed to bemaking no impression whatever. Mrs. Pett was sitting bolt uprightin her chair in a stiffly defensive sort of way. She had theappearance of being absolutely untouched by his eloquence. "Infact," he concluded lamely, "he is very sorry."

  There was silence for a moment.

  "How do you come to know Mitchell?" asked Mrs. Pett.

  "We knew each other when I was over here working on the_Chronicle_. I saw him fight once or twice. He is an excellentfellow, and used to have a right swing that was a pippin--Ishould say extremely excellent. Brought it up from the floor, youknow."

  "I strongly object to prize-fighters," said Mrs. Pett, "and I wasopposed to Mitchell coming into the house from the first."

  "You wouldn't let him come back, I suppose?" queried Jimmytentatively.

  "I would not. I would not dream of such a thing."

  "He's full of remorse, you know."

  "If he has a spark of humanity, I have no doubt of it."

  Jimmy paused. This thing was not coming out as well as it mighthave done. He feared that for once in her life Ann was about tobe denied something on which she had set her heart. Thereflection that this would be extremely good for her competed forprecedence in his mind with the reflection that she wouldprobably blame him for the failure, which would be unpleasant.

  "He is very fond of Ogden really."

  "H'm," said Mrs. Pett.

  "I think the heat must have made him irritable. In his normalstate he would not strike a lamb. I've known him to do it."

  "Do what?"

  "Not strike lambs."

  "Isch," said Mrs. Pett--the first time Jimmy had ever heard thatremarkable monosyllable proceed from human lips. He tookit--rightly--to be intended to convey disapproval, scepticism,and annoyance. He was convinced that this mission was going to beone of his failures.

  "Then I may tell him," he said, "that it's all right?"

  "That what is all right?"

  "That he may come back here?"

  "Certainly not."

  Mrs. Pett was not a timid woman, but she could not restrain ashudder as she watched the plot unfold before her eyes. Hergratitude towards Lord Wisbeach at this point in the proceedingsalmost became hero-worship. If it had not been for him and hisrevelations concerning this man before her, she would certainlyhave yielded to the request that Jerry Mitchell be allowed toreturn to the house. Much as she disliked Jerry, she had beenfeeling so triumphant at the thought of Jimmy Crocker coming toher in spite of his step-
mother's wishes and so pleased at havingunexpectedly got her own way that she could have denied himnothing that he might have cared to ask. But now it was as if,herself unseen, she were looking on at a gang of conspiratorshatching some plot. She was in the strong strategic position ofthe person who is apparently deceived, but who in reality knowsall.

  For a moment she considered the question of admitting Jerry tothe house. Evidently his presence was necessary to theconsummation of the plot, whatever it might be, and it occurredto her that it might be as well, on the principle of giving theschemers enough rope to hang themselves with, to let him comeback and play his part. Then she reflected that, with theself-styled Jimmy Crocker as well as the fraudulent Skinner inthe house, Lord Wisbeach and the detective would have their handsquite full enough. It would be foolish to complicate matters.She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Mr. Sturgis would bearriving soon, if he had really started at once from his office,as he had promised. She drew comfort from the imminence of hiscoming. It would be pleasant to put herself in the hands of anexpert.

  Jimmy had paused, mid-way to the door, and was standing there asif reluctant to accept her answer to his plea.

  "It would never occur again. What happened yesterday, I mean. Youneed not be afraid of that."

  "I am not afraid of that," responded Mrs. Pett tartly.

  "If you had seen him when I did--"

  "When did you? You landed from the boat this morning, you went toMr. Pett's office, and then came straight up here with him. I aminterested to know when you did see Mitchell?"

  She regretted this thrust a little, for she felt it might put theman on his guard by showing that she suspected something but shecould not resist it, and it pleased her to see that her companionwas momentarily confused.

  "I met him when I was going for my luggage," said Jimmy.

  It was just the way Marsden Tuke would have got out of it. Tukewas always wriggling out of corners like that. Mrs. Pett's horrorof Jimmy grew.

  "I told him, of course," said Jimmy, "that you had very kindlyinvited me to stay with you, and he told me all, about histrouble and implored me to plead for him. If you had seen himwhen I did, all gloom and repentance, you would have been sorryfor him. Your woman's heart--"

  Whatever Jimmy was about to say regarding Mrs. Pett's woman'sheart was interrupted by the opening of the door and the deep,respectful voice of Mr. Crocker.

  "Mr. Sturgis."

  The detective entered briskly, as if time were money with him--asindeed it was, for the International Detective Agency, of whichhe was the proprietor, did a thriving business. He was a gaunt,hungry-looking man of about fifty, with sunken eyes and thinlips. It was his habit to dress in the height of fashion, for oneof his favourite axioms was that a man might be a detective andstill look a gentleman, and his appearance was that of theindividual usually described as a "popular clubman." That is tosay, he looked like a floorwalker taking a Sunday stroll. Hisprosperous exterior deceived Jimmy satisfactorily, and the latterleft the room little thinking that the visitor was anything butan ordinary caller.

  The detective glanced keenly at him as he passed. He made apractice of glancing keenly at nearly everything. It cost nothingand impressed clients.

  "I am so glad you have come, Mr. Sturgis," said Mrs. Pett. "Won'tyou sit down?"

  Mr. Sturgis sat down, pulled up the knees of his trousers thathalf-inch which keeps them from bagging and so preserves thegentlemanliness of the appearance, and glanced keenly at Mrs.Pett.

  "Who was that young man who just went out?"

  "It is about him that I wished to consult you, Mr. Sturgis."

  Mr. Sturgis leaned back, and placed the tips of his fingerstogether.

  "Tell me how he comes to be here."

  "He pretends that he is my nephew, James Crocker."

  "Your nephew? Have you never seen your nephew?"

  "Never. I ought to tell you, that a few years ago my sistermarried for the second time. I disapproved of the marriage, andrefused to see her husband or his son--he was a widower. A fewweeks ago, for private reasons, I went over to England, wherethey are living, and asked my sister to let the boy come here towork in my husband's office. She refused, and my husband and Ireturned to New York. This morning I was astonished to get atelephone call from Mr. Pett from his office, to say that JamesCrocker had unexpectedly arrived after all, and was then at theoffice. They came up here, and the young man seemed quitegenuine. Indeed, he had an offensive jocularity which would bequite in keeping with the character of the real James Crocker,from what I have heard of him."

  Mr. Sturgis nodded.

  "Know what you mean. Saw that thing in the paper," he saidbriefly. "Yes?"

  "Now, it is very curious, but almost from the start I was uneasy.When I say that the young man seemed genuine, I mean that hecompletely deceived my husband and my niece, who lives with us.But I had reasons, which I need not go into now, for being on myguard, and I was suspicious. What aroused my suspicion was thefact that my husband thought that he remembered this young man asa fellow-traveller of ours on the _Atlantic_, on our return voyage,while he claimed to have landed that morning on the _Caronia_."

  "You are certain of that, Mrs. Pett? He stated positively that hehad landed this morning?"

  "Yes. Quite positively. Unfortunately I myself had no chance ofjudging the truth of what he said, as I am such a bad sailor thatI was seldom out of my stateroom from beginning to end of thevoyage. However, as I say, I was suspicious. I did not see how Icould confirm my suspicions, until I remembered that my newbutler, Skinner, had come straight from my sister's house."

  "That is the man who just admitted me?"

  "Exactly. He entered my employment only a few days ago, havingcome direct from London. I decided to wait until Skinner shouldmeet this young man. Of course, when he first came into thehouse, he was with my husband, who opened the door with his key,so that they did not meet then."

  "I understand," said Mr. Sturgis, glancing keenly at the dogAida, who had risen and was sniffing at his ankles. "You thoughtthat if Skinner recognised this young man, it would be proof ofhis identity?"

  "Exactly."

  "Did he recognise him?"

  "Yes. But wait. I have not finished. He recognised him, and forthe moment I was satisfied. But I had had my suspicions ofSkinner, too. I ought to tell you that I had been warned againsthim by a great friend of mine, Lord Wisbeach, an English peerwhom we have known intimately for a very long time. He is one ofthe Shropshire Wisbeaches, you know."

  "No doubt," said Mr. Sturgis.

  "Lord Wisbeach used to be intimate with the real Jimmy Crocker.He came to lunch to-day and met this impostor. He pretended torecognise him, in order to put him off his guard, but after lunchhe came to me here and told me that in reality he had never seenhim before in his life, and that, whoever else he might be, hewas certainly not James Crocker, my nephew."

  She broke off and looked at Mr. Sturgis expectantly. Thedetective smiled a quiet smile.

  "And even that is not all. There is another thing. Mr. Pett usedto employ as a physical instructor a man named Jerry Mitchell.Yesterday I dismissed him for reasons it is not necessary to gointo. To-day--just as you arrived in fact--the man who callshimself Jimmy Crocker was begging me to allow Mitchell to returnto the house and resume his work here. Does that not strike youas suspicious, Mr. Sturgis?"

  The detective closed his eyes, and smiled his quiet smile again.He opened his eyes, and fixed them on Mrs. Pett.

  "As pretty a case as I have come across in years," he said. "Mrs.Pett, let me tell you something. It is one of my peculiaritiesthat I never forget a face. You say that this young man pretendsto have landed this morning from the _Caronia_? Well, I saw himmyself more than a week ago in a Broadway _cafe_."

  "You did?"

  "Talking to--Jerry Mitchell. I know Mitchell well by sight."

  Mrs. Pett uttered an exclamation.

  "And this butler of yours--Skinner. Shall I tell you somethingabout him? You perh
aps know that when the big detective agencies,Anderson's and the others, are approached in the matter oftracing a man who is wanted for anything they sometimes ask thesmaller agencies like my own to work in with them. It saves timeand widens the field of operations. We are very glad to doAnderson's service, and Anderson's are big enough to be able toafford to let us do it. Now, a few days ago, a friend of mine inAnderson's came to me with a sheaf of photographs, which had beensent to them from London. Whether some private client in Londonor from Scotland Yard I do not know. Nor do I know why theoriginal of the photograph was wanted. But Anderson's had beenasked to trace him and make a report. My peculiar gift forremembering faces has enabled me to oblige the Anderson peopleonce or twice before in this way. I studied the photographs verycarefully, and kept two of them for reference. I have one with menow." He felt in his pockets. "Do you recognise it?"

  Mrs. Pett stared at the photograph. It was the presentment of astout, good-humoured man of middle-age, whose solemn gaze dwelton the middle distance in that fixed way which a man achievesonly in photographs.

  "Skinner!"

  "Exactly," said Mr. Sturgis, taking the photograph from her andputting it back in his pocket. "I recognised him directly heopened the door to me."

  "But--but I am almost certain that Skinner is the man who let mein when I called on my sister in London."

  "_Almost_," repeated the detective. "Did you observe him veryclosely?"

  "No. I suppose I did not."

  "The type is a very common one. It would be very easy indeed fora clever crook to make himself up as your sister's butler closelyenough to deceive any one who had only seen the original once andfor a short time then. What their game is I could not say atpresent, but, taking everything into consideration, there can beno doubt whatever that the man who calls himself your nephew andthe man who calls himself your sister's butler are workingtogether, and that Jerry Mitchell is working in with them. As Isay, I cannot tell you what they are after at present, but thereis no doubt that your unexpected dismissal of Mitchell must haveupset their plans. That would account for the eagerness to gethim back into the house again."

  "Lord Wisbeach thought that they were trying to steal my nephew'sexplosive. Perhaps you have read in the papers that my nephew,Willie Partridge, has completed an explosive which is morepowerful than any at present known. His father--you have heard ofhim, of course--Dwight Partridge."

  Mr. Sturgis nodded.

  "His father was working on it at the time of his death, andWillie has gone on with his experiments where he left off. To-dayat lunch he showed us a test-tube full of the explosive. He putit in my husband's safe in the library. Lord Wisbeach isconvinced that these scoundrels are trying to steal this, but Icannot help feeling that this is another of those attempts tokidnap my son Ogden. What do you think?"

  "It is impossible to say at this stage of the proceedings. All wecan tell is that there is some plot going on. You refused, ofcourse, to allow Mitchell to come back to the house?"

  "Yes. You think that was wise?"

  "Undoubtedly. If his absence did not handicap them, they wouldnot be so anxious to have him on the spot."

  "What shall we do?"

  "You wish me to undertake the case?"

  "Of course."

  Mr. Sturgis frowned thoughtfully.

  "It would be useless for me to come here myself. By bad luck theman who pretends to be your nephew has seen me. If I were to cometo stay here, he would suspect something. He would be on hisguard." He pondered with closed eyes. "Miss Trimble," heexclaimed.

  "I beg your pardon."

  "You want Miss Trimble. She is the smartest worker in my office.This is precisely the type of case she could handle toperfection."

  "A woman?" said Mrs. Pett doubtfully.

  "A woman in a thousand," said Mr. Sturgis. "A woman in amillion."

  "But physically would a woman be--?"

  "Miss Trimble knows more about jiu-jitsu than the Japaneseprofessor who taught her. At one time she was a Strong Woman insmall-time vaudeville. She is an expert revolver-shot. I am notworrying about Miss Trimble's capacity to do the work. I am onlywondering in what capacity it would be best for her to enter thehouse. Have you a vacancy for a parlour-maid?"

  "I could make one."

  "Do so at once. Miss Trimble is at her best as a parlour-maid.She handled the Marling divorce case in that capacity. Have you atelephone in the room?"

  Mrs. Pett opened the stuffed owl. The detective got in touch withhis office.

  "Mr. Sturgis speaking. Tell Miss Trimble to come to the phone.. . . Miss Trimble? I am speaking from Mrs. Pett's on RiversideDrive. You know the house? I want you to come up at once. Take ataxi. Go to the back-door and ask to see Mrs. Pett. Say you havecome about getting a place here as a maid. Understand? Right.Say, listen, Miss Trimble. Hello? Yes, don't hang up for amoment. Do you remember those photographs I showed you yesterday?Yes, the photographs from Anderson's. I've found the man. He'sthe butler here. Take a look at him when you get to the house.Now go and get a taxi. Mrs. Pett will explain everything when youarrive." He hung up the receiver. "I think I had better go now,Mrs. Pett. It would not do for me to be here while these fellowsare on their guard. I can safely leave the matter to MissTrimble. I wish you good afternoon."

  After he had gone, Mrs. Pett vainly endeavoured to interestherself again in her book, but in competition with the sensationsof life, fiction, even though she had written it herself, hadlost its power and grip. It seemed to her that Miss Trimble mustbe walking to the house instead of journeying thither in ataxi-cab. But a glance at the clock assured her that only fiveminutes had elapsed since the detective's departure. She went tothe window and looked out. She was hopelessly restless.

  At last a taxi-cab stopped at the corner, and a young woman gotout and walked towards the house. If this were Miss Trimble, shecertainly looked capable. She was a stumpy, square-shoulderedperson, and even at that distance it was possible to perceivethat she had a face of no common shrewdness and determination.The next moment she had turned down the side-street in thedirection of the back-premises of Mrs. Pett's house: and a fewminutes later Mr. Crocker presented himself.

  "A young person wishes to see you, madam. A young person of thename of Trimble." A pang passed through Mrs. Pett as she listenedto his measured tones. It was tragic that so perfect a butlershould be a scoundrel. "She says that you desired her to call inconnection with a situation."

  "Show her up here, Skinner. She is the new parlour-maid. I willsend her down to you when I have finished speaking to her."

  "Very good, madam."

  There seemed to Mrs. Pett to be a faint touch of defiance in MissTrimble's manner as she entered the room. The fact was that MissTrimble held strong views on the equal distribution of property,and rich people's houses always affected her adversely. Mr.Crocker retired, closing the door gently behind him.

  A meaning sniff proceeded from Mrs. Pett's visitor as she lookedround at the achievements of the interior decorator, who hadlavished his art unsparingly in this particular room. At thisclose range she more than fulfilled the promise of that distantview which Mrs. Pett had had of her from the window. Her face wasnot only shrewd and determined: it was menacing. She had thickeyebrows, from beneath which small, glittering eyes looked outlike dangerous beasts in undergrowth: and the impressive effectof these was accentuated by the fact that, while the left eyelooked straight out at its object, the right eye had a sort ofroving commission and was now, while its colleague fixed Mrs.Pett with a gimlet stare, examining the ceiling. As to the restof the appearance of this remarkable woman, her nose was stubbyand aggressive, and her mouth had the coldly forbidding look ofthe closed door of a subway express when you have just missed thetrain. It bade you keep your distance on pain of injury. Mrs.Pett, though herself a strong woman, was conscious of a curiousweakness as she looked at a female of the species so muchdeadlier than any male whom she had ever encountered: and camenear feeling a half-pity for the unhappy wretches on whom t
hisdynamic maiden was to be unleashed. She hardly knew how to openthe conversation.

  Miss Trimble, however, was equal to the occasion. She alwayspreferred to open conversations herself. Her lips parted, andwords flew out as if shot from a machine-gun. As far as Mrs.Pett could observe, she considered it unnecessary to part herteeth, preferring to speak with them clenched. This gave anadditional touch of menace to her speech.

  "Dafternoon," said Miss Trimble, and Mrs. Pett backedconvulsively into the padded recesses of her chair, feeling as ifsomebody had thrown a brick at her.

  "Good afternoon," she said faintly.

  "Gladda meecher, siz Pett. Mr. Sturge semme up. Said y'ad job f'rme. Came here squick scould."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Squick scould. Got slow taxi."

  "Oh, yes."

  Miss Trimble's right eye flashed about the room like asearchlight, but she kept the other hypnotically on hercompanion's face.

  "Whass trouble?" The right eye rested for a moment on amagnificent Corot over the mantelpiece, and she snifted again."Not s'prised y'have trouble. All rich people 've trouble. Noth't'do with their time 'cept get 'nto trouble."

  She frowned disapprovingly at a Canaletto.

  "You--ah--appear to dislike the rich," said Mrs. Pett, as nearlyin her grand manner as she could contrive.

  Miss Trimble bowled over the grand manner as if it had been asmall fowl and she an automobile. She rolled over it and squashedit flat.

  "Hate 'em! Sogelist!"

  "I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Pett humbly. This woman wasbeginning to oppress her to an almost unbelievable extent.

  "Sogelist! No use f'r idle rich. Ev' read B'nard Shaw? Huh? OrUpton Sinclair? Uh? Read'm. Make y'think a bit. Well, y'haven'ttold me whasser trouble."

  Mrs. Pett was by this time heartily regretting the impulse whichhad caused her to telephone to Mr. Sturgis. In a career which hadhad more than its share of detectives, both real and fictitious,she had never been confronted with a detective like this. Thegalling thing was that she was helpless. After all, one engaged adetective for his or her shrewdness and efficiency, not forsuavity and polish. A detective who hurls speech at you throughclenched teeth and yet detects is better value for the money thanone who, though an ideal companion for the drawing-room, isincompetent: and Mrs. Pett, like most other people,subconsciously held the view that the ruder a person is the moreefficient he must be. It is but rarely that any one is found whois not dazzled by the glamour of incivility. She crushed down herresentment at her visitor's tone, and tried to concentrate hermind on the fact that this was a business matter and that whatshe wanted was results rather than fair words. She found iteasier to do this when looking at the other's face. It was acapable face. Not beautiful, perhaps, but full of promise ofaction. Miss Trimble having ceased temporarily to speak, hermouth was in repose, and when her mouth was in repose it lookedmore efficient than anything else of its size in existence.

  "I want you," said Mrs. Pett, "to come here and watch some men--"

  "Men! Thought so! Wh' there's trouble, always men't bottom'f it!"

  "You do not like men?"

  "Hate 'em! Suff-gist!" She looked penetratingly at Mrs. Pett.Her left eye seemed to pounce out from under its tangled brow."You S'porter of th' Cause?"

  Mrs. Pett was an anti-Suffragist, but, though she held strongopinions, nothing would have induced her to air them at thatmoment. Her whole being quailed at the prospect of arguing withthis woman. She returned hurriedly to the main theme.

  "A young man arrived here this morning, pretending to be mynephew, James Crocker. He is an impostor. I want you to watch himvery carefully."

  "Whassiz game?"

  "I do not know. Personally I think he is here to kidnap my sonOgden."

  "I'll fix'm," said the fair Trimble confidently. "Say, thatbutler 'f yours. He's a crook!"

  Mrs. Pett opened her eyes. This woman was manifestly competent ather work.

  "Have you found that out already?"

  "D'rectly saw him." Miss Trimble opened her purse. "Go' one 'fhis photographs here. Brought it from office. He's th' man that'swanted 'll right."

  "Mr. Sturgis and I both think he is working with the other man,the one who pretends to be my nephew."

  "Sure. I'll fix 'm."

  She returned the photograph to her purse and snapped the catchwith vicious emphasis.

  "There is another possibility," said Mrs. Pett. "My nephew, Mr.William Partridge, had invented a wonderful explosive, and it isquite likely that these men are here to try to steal it."

  "Sure. Men'll do anything. If y' put all the men in th' world inth' cooler, wouldn't be 'ny more crime."

  She glowered at the dog Aida, who had risen from the basket andremoving the last remains of sleep from her system by a series ofcalisthenics of her own invention, as if she suspected her ofmasculinity. Mrs. Pett could not help wondering what tragedy inthe dim past had caused this hatred of males on the part of hervisitor. Miss Trimble had not the appearance of one who wouldlightly be deceived by Man; still less the appearance of one whomMan, unless short-sighted and extraordinarily susceptible, wouldgo out of his way to deceive. She was still turning this mysteryover in her mind, when her visitor spoke.

  "Well, gimme th' rest of th' dope," said Miss Trimble.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "More facts. Spill 'm!"

  "Oh, I understand," said Mrs. Pett hastily, and embarked on abrief narrative of the suspicious circumstances which had causedher to desire skilled assistance.

  "Lor' W'sbeach?" said Miss Trimble, breaking the story. "Who'she?"

  "A very great friend of ours."

  "You vouch f'r him pers'n'lly? He's all right, uh? Not a crook,huh?"

  "Of course he is not!" said Mrs. Pett indignantly. "He's a greatfriend of mine."

  "All right. Well, I guess thass 'bout all, huh? I'll be goingdownstairs 'an starting in."

  "You can come here immediately?"

  "Sure. Got parlour-maid rig round at m' boarding-house roundcorner. Come back with it 'n ten minutes. Same dress I used whenI w's working on th' Marling D'vorce case. D'jer know th'Marlings? Idle rich! Bound t' get 'nto trouble. I fixed 'm. Well,g'bye. Mus' be going. No time t' waste."

  Mrs. Pett leaned back faintly in her chair. She felt overcome.

  Downstairs, on her way out, Miss Trimble had paused in the hallto inspect a fine statue which stood at the foot of the stairs.It was a noble work of art, but it seemed to displease her. Shesnorted.

  "Idle rich!" she muttered scornfully. "Brrh!"

  The portly form of Mr. Crocker loomed up from the direction ofthe back stairs. She fixed her left eye on him piercingly. Mr.Crocker met it, and quailed. He had that consciousness of guiltwhich philosophers tell is the worst drawback to crime. Why thiswoman's gaze should disturb him so thoroughly, he could not havesaid. She was a perfect stranger to him. She could know nothingabout him. Yet he quailed.

  "Say," said Miss Trimble. "I'm c'ming here 's parlour-maid."

  "Oh, ah?" said Mr. Crocker, feebly.

  "Grrrh!" observed Miss Trimble, and departed.