To this remarkable metamorphosis in Mr. Peter Pett several causeshad contributed. In the first place, the sudden dismissal ofJerry Mitchell had obliged him to go two days without thephysical exercises to which his system had become accustomed, andthis had produced a heavy, irritable condition of body and mind.
He had brooded on the injustice of his lot until he had almostworked himself up to rebellion. And then, as sometimes happenedwith him when he was out of sorts, a touch of gout came to add tohis troubles. Being a patient man by nature, he might have borneup against these trials, had he been granted an adequate night'srest. But, just as he had dropped off after tossing restlesslyfor two hours, things had begun to happen noisily in the library.
He awoke to a vague realisation of tumult below.
Such was the morose condition of his mind as the result of hismisfortune that at first not even the cries for help couldinterest him sufficiently to induce him to leave his bed. He knewthat walking in his present state would be painful, and hedeclined to submit to any more pain just because some partyunknown was apparently being murdered in his library. It was notuntil the shrill barking of the dog Aida penetrated right inamong his nerve-centres and began to tie them into knots that hefound himself compelled to descend. Even when he did so, it wasin no spirit of kindness. He did not come to rescue anybody or tointerfere between any murderer and his victim. He came in a feverof militant wrath to suppress Aida. On the threshold of thelibrary, however, the genius, by treading on his gouty foot, haddiverted his anger and caused it to become more general. He hadnot ceased to concentrate his venom on Aida. He wanted to assaileverybody.
"What's the matter here?" he demanded, red-eyed. "Isn't somebodygoing to tell me? Have I got to stop here all night? Who on earthis this?" He glared at Miss Trimble. "What's she doing with thatpistol?" He stamped incautiously with his bad foot, and emitted adry howl of anguish.
"She is a detective, Peter," said Mrs. Pett timidly.
"A detective? Why? Where did she come from?"Miss Trimble took it upon herself to explain.
"Mister Pett, siz Pett sent f'r me t' watch out so's nobodykidnapped her son.""Oggie," explained Mrs. Pett. "Miss Trimble was guarding darlingOggie.""Why?""To--to prevent him being kidnapped, Peter."Mr. Pett glowered at the stout boy. Then his eye was attracted bythe forlorn figure of Jerry Mitchell. He started.
"Was this fellow kidnapping the boy?" he asked.
"Sure," said Miss Trimble. "Caught h'm with th' goods. He w'swaiting outside there with a car. I held h'm and this other guyup w'th a gun and brought 'em back!""Jerry," said Mr. Pett, "it wasn't your fault that you didn'tbring it off, and I'm going to treat you right. You'd have doneit if nobody had butted in to stop you. You'll get the money tostart that health-farm of yours all right. I'll see to that. Nowyou run off to bed. There's nothing to keep you here.""Say!" cried Miss Trimble, outraged. "D'ya mean t' say y' aren'tgoing t' pros'cute? Why, aren't I tell'ng y' I caught h'mkidnapping th' boy?""I told him to kidnap the boy!" snarled Mr. Pett.
"Peter!"Mr. Pett looked like an under-sized lion as he faced his wife. Hebristled. The recollection of all that he had suffered from Ogdencame to strengthen his determination.
"I've tried for two years to get you to send that boy to a goodboarding-school, and you wouldn't do it. I couldn't stand havinghim loafing around the house any longer, so I told Jerry Mitchellto take him away to a friend of his who keeps a dogs' hospital onLong Island and to tell his friend to hold him there till he gotsome sense into him. Well, you've spoiled that for the momentwith your detectives, but it still looks good to me. I'll giveyou a choice. You can either send that boy to a boarding-schoolnext week, or he goes to Jerry Mitchell's friend. I'm not goingto have him in the house any longer, loafing in my chair andsmoking my cigarettes. Which is it to be?""But, Peter!""Well?""If I send him to a school, he may be kidnapped.""Kidnapping can't hurt him. It's what he needs. And, anyway, ifhe is I'll pay the bill and be glad to do it. Take him off to bednow. To-morrow you can start looking up schools. Great Godfrey!"He hopped to the writing-desk and glared disgustedly at the_debris_ on it. "Who's been making this mess on my desk? It's hard!
It's darned hard! The only room in the house that I ask to havefor my own, where I can get a little peace, and I find it turnedinto a beer-garden, and coffee or some damned thing spilled allover my writing-desk!""That isn't coffee, Peter," said Mrs. Pett mildly. This cave-manwhom she had married under the impression that he was a gentledomestic pet had taken all the spirit out of her. "It's Willie'sexplosive.""Willie's explosive?""Lord Wisbeach--I mean the man who pretended to be LordWisbeach--dropped it there.""Dropped it there? Well, why didn't it explode and blow the placeto Hoboken, then?"Mrs. Pett looked helplessly at Willie, who thrust his fingersinto his mop of hair and rolled his eyes.
"There was fortunately some slight miscalculation in my formula,uncle Peter," he said. "I shall have to look into it to-morrow.
Whether the trinitrotoluol--"Mr. Pett uttered a sharp howl. He beat the air with his clenchedfists. He seemed to be having a brain-storm.
"Has this--this _fish_ been living on me all this time--have I beensupporting this--this _buzzard_ in luxury all these years while hefooled about with an explosive that won't explode! He pointed anaccusing finger at the inventor. Look into it tomorrow, will you?
Yes, you can look into it to-morrow after six o'clock! Until thenyou'll be working--for the first time in your life--working in myoffice, where you ought to have been all along." He surveyed thecrowded room belligerently. "Now perhaps you will all go back tobed and let people get a little sleep. Go home!" he said to thedetective.
Miss Trimble stood her ground. She watched Mrs. Pett pass awaywith Ogden, and Willie Partridge head a stampede of geniuses, butshe declined to move.
"Y' gotta cut th' rough stuff, 'ster Pett," she said calmly. "Ineed my sleep, j'st 's much 's everyb'dy else, but I gotta stayhere. There's a lady c'ming right up in a taxi fr'm th' Astorbiltto identify this gook. She's after'm f'r something.""What! Skinner?""'s what he calls h'mself.""What's he done?""I d'no. Th' lady'll tell us that."There was a violent ringing at the front door bell.
"I guess that's her," said Miss Trimble. "Who's going to let 'rin? I can't go.""I will," said Ann.
Mr. Pett regarded Mr. Crocker with affectionate encouragement.
"I don't know what you've done, Skinner," he said, "but I'llstand by you. You're the best fan I ever met, and if I can keepyou out of the penitentiary, I will.""It isn't the penitentiary!" said Mr. Crocker unhappily.
A tall, handsome, and determined-looking woman came into theroom. She stood in the doorway, looking about her. Then her eyesrested on Mr. Crocker. For a moment she gazed incredulously athis discoloured face. She drew a little nearer, peering.
"D'yo 'dentify 'm, ma'am?" said Miss Trimble.
"Bingley!""Is 't th' guy y' wanted?""It's my husband!" said Mrs. Crocker.
"Y' can't arrest 'm f'r _that!_" said Miss Trimble disgustedly.
She thrust her revolver back into the hinterland of her costume.
"Guess I'll be beatin' it," she said with a sombre frown. She wasplainly in no sunny mood. "'f all th' hunk jobs I was ever on,this is th' hunkest. I'm told off 't watch a gang of crooks, andafter I've lost a night's sleep doing it, it turns out 't's anice, jolly fam'ly party!" She jerked her thumb towards Jimmy.
"Say, this guy says he's that guy's son. I s'pose it's allright?""That is my step-son, James Crocker."Ann uttered a little cry, but it was lost in Miss Trimble'sstupendous snort. The detective turned to the window.
"I guess I'll beat 't," she observed caustically, "before itturns out that I'm y'r l'il daughter Genevieve."
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