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.