LITMIR.BIZ

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lesson than usual.

      They waited. Presently the hands of the Cromwellian timepiece which was the nearest approach to an Elizabethan clock that Lucia had been able at present to obtain, pointed to a quarter past ten.

      “My Guru is a little late,” said she.

      Two minutes afterwards, Peppino sneezed. Two minutes after that Daisy spoke, using irony.

      “Would it not be well to see what has happened to your Guru, dear?” she asked. “Have you seen your Guru this morning?”

      “No, dear,” said Lucia, not opening her eyes, for she was “concentrating,” “he always meditates before a class.”

      “So do I,” said Daisy, “but I have meditated long enough.”

      “Hush!” said Lucia. “He is coming.”

      That proved to be a false alarm, for it was nothing but Lucia’s Persian cat, who had a quarrel with some dead laurel leaves. Lucia rose.

      “I don’t like to interrupt him,” she said, “but time is getting on.”

      She left the smoking-parlour with the slow supple walk that she adopted when she wore her Teacher’s Robes. Before many seconds had passed, she came back more quickly and with no suppleness.

      “His door is locked”, she said; “and yet there’s no key in it.”

      “Did you look through the keyhole, Lucia mia?” asked Mrs Quantock, with irrepressible irony.

      Naturally Lucia disregarded this.

      “I knocked,” she said, “and there was no reply. I said, ‘Master, we are waiting,’ and he didn’t answer.”

      Suddenly Georgie spoke, as with the report of a cork flying out of a bottle.

      “My sisters told me last night that he was the curry-cook at the Calcutta restaurant,” he said. “They recognised him, and they thought he recognised them. He comes from Madras, and is no more a Brahmin than Foljambe.”

      Peppino bounded to his feet.

      “What?” he said. “Let’s get a poker and break in the door! I believe he’s gone and I believe he’s the burglar. Ring for the police.”

      “Curry-cook, is he?” said Daisy. “Robert and I were right after all. We knew what your Guru was best fitted for, dear Lucia, but then of course you always know best, and you and he have been fooling us finely. But you didn’t fool me. I knew when you took him away from me, what sort of a bargain you had made. Guru, indeed! He’s the same class as Mrs Eddy, and I saw through her fast enough. And now what are we to do? For my part, I shall just get home, and ring up for the police, and say that the Indian who has been living with you all these weeks has stolen my spoons and forks and my Georgian tankard. Guru, indeed! Burglaroo, I call him! There!”

      Her passion, like Hyperion’s, had lifted her upon her feet, and she stood there defying the whole of the advanced class, short and stout and wholly ridiculous, but with some revolutionary menace about her. She was not exactly “terrible as an army with banners,” but she was terrible as an elderly lady with a long-standing grievance that had been accentuated by the loss of a Georgian tankard, and that was terrible enough to make Lucia adopt a conciliatory attitude. Bitterly she repented having stolen Daisy’s Guru at all, if the suspicions now thickening in the air proved to be true, but after all they were not proved yet. The Guru might still walk in from the arbor on the laburnum alley which they had not yet searched, or he might be levitating with the door key in his pocket. It was not probable but it was possible, and at this crisis possibilities were things that must be clung to, for otherwise you would simply have to submerge, like those U-boats.

      They searched all the garden, but found no trace of the curry-cook: they made guarded enquiries of the servants as to whether he had been seen, but nothing whatever could be learned about him. So when Peppino took a ponderous hammer and a stout chisel from his tool chest and led the way upstairs, they all knew that the decisive moment had come. Perhaps he might be meditating (for indeed it was likely that he had a good deal to meditate about), but perhaps—Peppino called to him in his most sonorous tones, and said that he would be obliged to break his lock if no answer came, and presently the house resounded with knockings as terrible as those in Macbeth, and much louder. Then suddenly the lock gave, and the door was open.

      The room was empty, and as they had all conjectured by now, the bed was unslept in. They opened the drawers of the wardrobe and they were as empty as the room. Finally, Peppino unlocked the door of a large cupboard that stood in the corner, and with a clinking and crashing of glass there poured out a cataract of empty brandy bottles. Emptiness: that was the key-note of the whole scene, and blank consternation its effect.

      “My brandy!” said Mrs Quantock in a strangled voice. “There are fourteen or fifteen bottles. That accounts for the glazed look in his eyes which you, dear Lucia, thought was concentration. I call it distillation.”

      “Did he take it from your cellar?” asked Lucia, too shattered to feel resentment, but still capable of intense curiosity.

      “No: he had a standing order from me to order any little things he might want from my tradesmen. I wish I had my bills sent in every week.”

      “Yes, dear,” said Lucia.

      Georgie’s eyes sought hers.

      “I saw him buy the first bottle,” he said. “I remember telling you about it. It was at Rush’s.”

      Peppino gathered up his hammer and chisel.

      “Well, it’s no use sitting here and thinking of old times,” he observed. “I shall ring up the police-station and put the whole matter into their hands, as far as I am concerned. They’ll soon lay hands on him, and he can do his postures in prison for the next few years.”

      “But we don’t know that it was he who committed all these burglaries yet,” said Lucia.

      No one felt it was worth answering this, for the others had all tried and convicted him already.

      “I shall do the same,” said Georgie.

      “My tankard,” said Mrs Quantock. Lucia got up.

      “Peppino mio,” she said, “and you, Georgie, and you, Daisy, I want you before you do anything at all to listen to me for five minutes. Just consider this. What sort of figure shall we all cut if we put the matter into the hands of the police? They will probably catch him, and it will all come out that we have been the dupes of a curry-cook. Think what we have all been doing for this last month, think of our classes, our exercises, our—everything. We have been made fools of, but for my part, I simply couldn’t bear that everybody should know I had been made a fool of. Anything but that. What’s a hundred pounds compared to that, or a tankard—”

      “My Louis XVI snuff-box was worth at least that without the other things,” said Georgie, still with a secret satisfaction in being the greatest sufferer.

      “And it was my hundred pounds, not yours, carissima,” said Peppino. But it was clear that Lucia’s words were working within him like leaven.

      “I’ll go halves with you,” she said. “I’ll give you a cheque for fifty pounds.”

      “And who would like to go halves in my tankard?” said Daisy with bitter irony. “I want my tankard.”

      Georgie said nothing, but his mind was extremely busy. There was Olga soon coming to Riseholme, and it would be awful if she found it ringing with the tale of the Guru, and glancing across to Peppino, he saw a thoughtful and sympathetic look in his eyes, that seemed to indicate that his mind was working on parallel lines. Certainly Lucia had given them all something to meditate upon. He tried to imagine the whole story being shouted into Mrs Antrobus’s ear-trumpet on the village-green, and could not endure the idea. He tried to imagine Mrs Weston ever ceasing to talk about it, and could not picture her silence. No doubt they had all been taken in, too, but here in this empty bedroom were the original dupes, who encouraged

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