Piccadilly Jim · Chapter 9 (2/2)

“They wouldn’t call themselves that,” said Lord Wisbeach. “Secret Service agents. Every country has its men whose only duty it is to handle this sort of work.”

“They would try to steal Willie’s⁠—?” Mrs. Pett’s voice failed.

“They would not look on it as stealing. Their motives would be patriotic. I tell you, Mrs. Pett, I have heard stories from friends of mine in the English Secret Service which would amaze you. Perfectly straight men in private life, but absolutely unscrupulous when at work. They stick at nothing⁠—nothing. If I were you, I should suspect everyone, especially every stranger.” He smiled engagingly. “You are thinking that that is odd advice from one who is practically a stranger like myself. Never mind. Suspect me, too, if you like. Be on the safe side.”

“I would not dream of doing such a thing, Lord Wisbeach,” said Mrs. Pett horrified. “I trust you implicitly. Even supposing such a thing were possible, would you have warned me like this, if you had been⁠—?”

“That’s true,” said Lord Wisbeach. “I never thought of that. Well, let me say, suspect everybody but me.” He stopped abruptly. “Mrs. Pett,” he whispered, “don’t look round for a moment. Wait.” The words were almost inaudible. “Who is that man behind you? He has been listening to us. Turn slowly.”

With elaborate carelessness, Mrs. Pett turned her head. At first she thought her companion must have alluded to one of a small group of young men who, very improperly in such surroundings, were discussing with raised voices the prospects of the clubs competing for the National League Baseball Pennant. Then, extending the sweep of her gaze, she saw that she had been mistaken. Midway between her and this group stood a single figure, the figure of a stout man in a swallowtail suit, who bore before him a tray with cups on it. As she turned, this man caught her eye, gave a guilty start, and hurried across the room.

“You saw?” said Lord Wisbeach. “He was listening. Who is that man? Your butler apparently. What do you know of him?”

“He is my new butler. His name is Skinner.”

“Ah, your new butler? He hasn’t been with you long, then?”

“He only arrived from England three days ago.”

“From England? How did he get in here? I mean, on whose recommendation?”

“Mr. Pett offered him the place when we met him at my sister’s in London. We went over there to see my sister, Eugenia⁠—Mrs. Crocker. This man was the butler who admitted us. He asked Mr. Pett something about baseball, and Mr. Pett was so pleased that he offered him a place here if he wanted to come over. The man did not give any definite answer then, but apparently he sailed on the next boat, and came to the house a few days after we had returned.”

Lord Wisbeach laughed softly.

“Very smart. Of course they had him planted there for the purpose.”

“What ought I to do?” asked Mrs. Pett agitatedly.

“Do nothing. There is nothing that you can do, for the present, except keep your eyes open. Watch this man Skinner. See if he has any accomplices. It is hardly likely that he is working alone. Suspect everybody. Believe me⁠ ⁠…”

At this moment, apparently from some upper region, there burst forth an uproar so sudden and overwhelming that it might well have been taken for a premature testing of a large sample of Partridgite; until a moment later it began to resemble more nearly the shrieks of some partially destroyed victim of that death-dealing invention. It was a bellow of anguish, and it poured through the house in a cascade of sound, advertising to all beneath the roof the twin facts that some person unknown was suffering and that whoever the sufferer might be he had excellent lungs.

The effect on the gathering in the drawing-room was immediate and impressive. Conversation ceased as if it had been turned off with a tap. Twelve separate and distinct discussions on twelve highly intellectual topics died instantaneously. It was as if the last trump had sounded. Futurist painters stared pallidly at vers libre poets, speech smitten from their lips; and stage performers looked at esoteric Buddhists with a wild surmise.

The sudden silence had the effect of emphasising the strange noise and rendering it more distinct, thus enabling it to carry its message to one at least of the listeners. Mrs. Pett, after a moment of strained attention in which time seemed to her to stand still, uttered a wailing cry and leaped for the door.

“Ogden!” she shrilled; and passed up the stairs two at a time, gathering speed as she went. A boy’s best friend is his mother.