Uneasy Money by P. G. Wodehouse (types of ebook readers TXT) 📕

to advance circuitously, with the result that, before he knew what he was doing, he came out into a clearing and understood the meaning of the sudden silence which had perplexed him. Footsteps made no sound on this mossy turf.

He knew where he was now, the clearing was familiar. This was where Lord Wetherby’s shack studio stood; and there it was, right in front of him, black and clear in the moonlight. And the two dark figures were going into it.

Mr. Pickering retreated into the shelter of the bushes and mused upon this thing. It seemed to him that for centuries he had been doing nothing but retreat into bushes for this purpose. His perplexity had returned. He could imagine no reason why burglars should want to visit Lord Wetherby’s studio. He had taken it for granted, when he had tracked them to the clearing, that they were on their way to the house, which was quite close to the shack, separated from it only by a thin belt of trees and a lawn.

They had certainly gone in. He had seen them with his own eyes⁠—first The Man, then very close behind him, apparently holding to his coat, the girl. But why?

Creep up and watch them? Would Chingachgook have taken a risk like that? Hardly, unless insured with some good company. Then what? He was still undecided when he perceived the objects of his attention emerging. He backed a little farther into the bushes.

They stood for an instant, listening apparently. The Man no longer carried the sack. They exchanged a few inaudible words. Then they crossed the clearing and entered the wood a few yards to his right. He could hear the crackling of their footsteps diminishing in the direction of the road.

A devouring curiosity seized upon Mr. Pickering. He wanted, more than he had wanted almost anything before in his life, to find out what the dickens they had been up to in there. He listened. The footsteps were no longer audible. He ran across the clearing and into the shack. It was then that he discovered that he had no matches.

This needless infliction, coming upon him at the crisis of an adventurous night, infuriated Mr. Pickering. He swore softly. He groped round the walls for an electric-light switch, but the shack had no electric-light switches. When there was need to illuminate it an oil lamp performed the duty. This occurred to Mr. Pickering after he had been round the place three times, and he ceased to grope for switches and began to seek a matchbox. He was still seeking it when he was frozen in his tracks by the sound of footsteps, muffled but by their nearness audible, just outside the door. He pulled out his pistol, which he had replaced in his pocket, backed against the wall, and stood there, prepared to sell his life dearly. The door opened.

One reads of desperate experiences aging people in a single night. His present predicament aged Mr. Pickering in a single minute. In the brief interval of time between the opening of the door and the moment when a voice outside began to speak, he became a full thirty years older. His boyish ardor slipped from him, and he was once more the Dudley Pickering whom the world knew, the staid and respectable middle-aged man of affairs, who would have given a million dollars not to have got himself mixed up in this deplorable business.

And then the voice spoke.

“I’ll light the lamp,” it said; and with an overpowering feeling of relief Mr. Pickering recognized it as Lord Wetherby’s. A moment later the temperamental peer’s dapper figure became visible in silhouette against a background of pale light.

“Ah-hum!” said Mr. Pickering.

The effect on Lord Wetherby was remarkable. To hear someone clear his throat at the back of a dark room, where there should rightfully be no throat to be cleared, would cause even your man of stolid habit a passing thrill. The thing got right in among Lord Wetherby’s highly sensitive ganglions like an earthquake. He leaped in the air with a strangled cry, then dashed out and slammed the door behind him.

“There’s someone in there!”

Lady Wetherby’s tranquil voice made itself heard.

“Nonsense, who could be in there?”

“I heard him, I tell you. He growled at me!”

It seemed to Mr. Pickering that the time had come to relieve the mental distress which he was causing his host. He raised his voice.

“It’s all right!” he called.

“There!” said Lord Wetherby.

“Who’s that?” asked Lady Wetherby through the door.

“It’s all right. It’s me⁠—Pickering.”

The door was opened a few inches by a cautious hand.

“Is that you, Pickering?”

“Yes. It’s all right.”

“Don’t keep saying it’s all right,” said Lord Wetherby irritably. “It isn’t all right. What do you mean by hiding in the dark and popping out and barking at a man? You made me bite my tongue. I’ve never had such a shock in my life.”

Mr. Pickering left his lair and came out into the open. Lord Wetherby was looking aggrieved, Lady Wetherby peacefully inquisitive. For the first time Mr. Pickering discovered that Claire was present. She was standing behind Lady Wetherby with a floating white something over her head, looking very beautiful.

“For the love of Mike!” said Lady Wetherby.

Mr. Pickering became aware that he was still holding the revolver.

“Oh, ah!” he said, and trousered the weapon.

“Barking at people!” muttered Lord Wetherby in a querulous undertone.

“What on earth are you doing, Dudley?” said Claire.

There was a note in her voice which both puzzled and pained Mr. Pickering, a note that seemed to suggest that she found herself in imperfect sympathy with him. Her expression deepened the suggestion. It was a cold expression, unfriendly, as if it was not so keen a pleasure to Claire to look at him as it should be for a girl to look at the man whom she is engaged to marry. He had noticed the same note in her voice and the same hostile look in her eye earlier in the evening. He had found her alone, reading a letter, which, as the stamp on the