LITMIR.BIZ

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at the flat a week or two ago. A very small girl.”

      “Oh, yes, sir. I remember Miss Byng. A charming young lady.”

      “Maybe. But what does she want me to do for her? That’s the question. Probably something completely unfit for me. So I’ve got that to worry about, too. What a life!”

      “Yes, sir.”

      We noted a signpost where had been inscribed the words ‘Totleigh-in-the-Wold, 8 miles’. Soon I braked the car. “Journey’s end, Jeeves?”

      “I can imagine, sir.”

      Having turned in at the gateway and fetched up at the front door, we were informed by the butler that this was indeed the lair of Sir Watkyn Bassett.

      Sir Watkyn, the butler explained, had gone for a walk.

      “I fancy he is somewhere in the garden with Mr. Roderick Spode[55].”

      I was shocked. After that affair at the antique shop, the name Roderick was, as you may imagine, rather deeply graven on my heart.

      “Roderick Spode? Big chap with a small moustache and the sort of eye that can open an oyster at sixty paces?”

      “Yes, sir. He arrived yesterday with Sir Watkyn from London. They went out shortly after lunch. Miss Madeline, I believe, is at home, but it may take some little time to locate her.”

      “How about Mr. Fink-Nottle?”

      “I think he has gone for a walk, sir.”

      “Oh? Well, right. Then I’ll just walk a bit, too.”

      I was glad of the chance of being alone for a while. I strolled off along the terrace. The news that Roderick Spode was here had shaken me greatly.

      I mean, imagine how some unfortunate criminal would feel, on coming down to do a murder somewhere, if he found that not only was Sherlock Holmes[56] putting in the weekend there, but Hercule Poirot[57], as well.

      The more I thought about pinching that cow-creamer, the less I liked the idea. I was trying hard to find some formula.

      Old Bassett, I noted, had laid out his money to excellent advantage. I am a bit of a connoisseur of country houses, and I found this one excellent. Nice facade, spreading grounds, smoothly shaven lawns, and a general atmosphere of what is known as old-world peace. Cows were mooing in the distance, sheep and birds respectively bleating and tooting. Totleigh Towers might be a place where man was vile, but undoubtedly every prospect pleased.

      And I was strolling up and down, my attention was arrested by the interior of a room on the ground floor, visible through an open French window.

      It was a sort of minor drawing room, if you know what I mean. And it was filled with glass cases and statuettes. It was evident that I was looking at the Bassett collection.

      I paused. Something forced me to enter the room. And the next moment, there I was with my old pal the silver cow. It was standing in a small case over by the door, and I peered in at it, breathing heavily on the glass. I dipped in, and fished it out.

      At this point a voice behind me said “Hands up!” and, turning, I observed Roderick Spode in the window. He had a shotgun in his hand.

      Three

      I had described Roderick Spode to the butler as a man with an eye that could open an oyster at sixty paces, and it was an eye of this nature that he was directing at me now. I saw that I had been mistaken in supposing him to be seven feet in height. Eight, at least. Also the slowly working jaw muscles.

      I hoped he was not going to say “Ha!” but he did. And that concluded the dialogue sequence for the moment. Then, still keeping his eyes glued on me, he shouted: “Sir Atkyn!” There was a distant sound of Eh-yes-here-I-am-what-is-it-ing. “Come here, please. I have something to show you.” Old Bassett appeared in the window, adjusting his pince-nez.

      “Look!” said Spode. “Would you have thought such a thing possible?”

      Old Bassett was goggling at me with a sort of stunned amazement.

      “Good God! It’s the bag-snatcher!”

      “Yes. Isn’t it incredible?”

      “It’s unbelievable. Why, damn it, I’s persecution. Fellow follows me everywhere. Never a free moment. How did you catch him?”

      “I was walking along the drive, and I saw a furtive figure slink in at the window. I hurried up, and covered him with my gun. Just in time. He had already begun to loot the place.”

      “Well, I’m most obliged to you, Roderick. But what I can’t understand is the chap’s pertinacity. But no. Well, he will be sorry he did.”

      “I suppose this is too serious a case for you to deal with summarily?”

      “I can issue a warrant for his arrest. Bring him along to the library, and I’ll do it now. The case will have to go to the Assizes.”

      “What will he get, how do you think?”

      “Not easy to say. But certainly not less than—”

      “Hoy!” I said. I had intended to speak in a quiet, reasonable voice—to explain that I was on these premises as an invited guest, but for some reason the word came out like a thunder. Spode said: “Don’t shout like that! ”

      “Nearly broke my ear-drum,” grumbled old Bassett.

      “But listen!” I yelled. “Will you listen!”

      A certain amount of confused argument then ensued, and in the middle of it all, the door opened and somebody said “Goodness gracious!”

      I looked round. Those parted lips… those saucer-like eyes… that slender figure… Madeline Bassett came in. “Goodness gracious!” she repeated. She was definitely the sort of girl who puts her hands over a husband’s eyes, as he is crawling in to breakfast with a morning head, and says: “Guess who!”

      I once stayed at the residence of a newly married pal of mine, and his bride had had carved in large letters over the fireplace in the drawing room, where it was impossible to miss it, the legend: “Two Lovers Built This Nest.” Whether Madeline Bassett, on entering the marital state, would do the same, I could not say, but it seemed most probable. She was looking at us with a sort of pretty, wide-eyed wonder. “What is all the noise about?” she said. “Why, Bertie! When did you get here?”

      “Oh, hallo. I’ve just arrived.”

      “Did you have a nice journey?”

      “Oh, rather, thanks.”

      “You must be quite exhausted.”

      “Oh, no, thanks, rather not.”

      “Well, tea will be ready soon. I see you’ve met Daddy.”

      “And Mr. Spode.”

      “And Mr. Spode. I don’t know where Augustus is, but he’s sure to be in to tea.”

      Old Bassett had been listening to these courtesies with a dazed expression on the face. To him, Bertram was a creature of the underworld who stole bags and umbrellas and, what made it worse, didn’t even steal them well.

      “You don’t mean you know this man?” he said. Madeline Bassett laughed the tinkling, silvery laugh.

      “Why, Daddy, you’re too absurd. Of course I know him. Bertie Wooster is an old, old, a very dear old friend of mine. I told you he was coming here today.”

      “This isn’t your friend Mr. Wooster?”

      “Of course.”

      “But he snatches bags.”

      “Umbrellas,” prompted Spode.

      “And umbrellas,” assented old Bassett. “And makes daylight raids on antique shops.”

      “Daddy!”

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