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He was surprised to find that it was raining, and had apparently, from the state of his clothes, been raining for quite some time. It was also thundering. The storm had broken, and the boom of it seemed to be all round him. A flash of lightning reminded him that he was in just the kind of place, among all these trees, where blokes get struck. At dinnertime they are missed, and later on search-parties come out with lanterns. Somebody stumbles over something soft, and the rays of the lantern fall on a charred and blackened form. Here, quickly, we have found him! Where? Over here. Is
that
Hugo Carmody?

Well, well! Pick him up, boys, and bring him along. He was a good chap once. Moody, though, of late. Some trouble about a girl, wasn’t it? She will be sorry when she hears of this. Drove him to it, you might almost say. Steady with that stretcher. Now, when I say

‘
To
me.’ Right!

There was something about this picture which quite cheered Hugo up. Ajax defied the lightning. Hugo Carmody rather encouraged it than otherwise. He looked approvingly at a more than usually vivid flash that seemed to dart among the tree-tops like a snake. All the same, he was forced to reflect, he was getting dashed wet. No sense, when you came right down to it, in getting dashed wet. After all, a man could be struck by lightning just as well in that cottage sort of place over there. Ho! for the cottage, felt Hugo, and headed for it at a gallop.

He had just reached the door, when it was flung open. There was a noise rather like that made by a rising pheasant, and the next moment something white had flung itself into his arms and was weeping emotionally on his chest.

‘Hugo! Hugo, darling!’

Reason told Hugo it could scarcely be Millicent who was clinging to him like this and speaking to him like this. And yet Millicent it most certainly appeared to be. She continued to speak, still in the same friendly, even chatty strain.

‘Hugo! Save me!’

‘Right ho!’

‘I wur-wur-went in thur-thur-there to shush-shush-shelter from the rain and it’s all pitch dark.’

Hugo squeezed her fondly and with the sort of relief that comes to men who find themselves squeezing where they had not thought to squeeze. No need for that snappy bit of talking now. No need for arguments and explanations, for pleadings and entreaties. No need for anything but a good biceps.

He was bewildered. But mixed with his bewilderment had come a certain feeling of complacency. There was no denying that it was enjoyable, this exhibition of tremulous weakness in one who, if she had had the shadow of a fault, had always been inclined to matter-of-factness and the display of that rather hard, bright self-sufficiency which is so characteristic of the modern girl. If this melting mood was due to the fact that Millicent, while in the cottage, had seen a ghost, Hugo wanted to meet that ghost and shake its hand. Every man likes to be in a position to say ‘There, there, little woman!’ to the girl of his heart, particularly if for the last few days she has been treating him like a more than ordinarily unpleasant worm, and Hugo Carmody felt that he was in that position now.

‘There, there!’ he said, not quite feeling up to risking the ‘little woman’. ‘It’s all right.’

‘But it tut-tut-tut . . .’

‘It what?’ said Hugo puzzled.

‘It tut-tut-tut-tisn’t. There’s a man in there!’

‘A man?’

‘Yes. I didn’t know there was anyone there, and it was pitch dark and I heard something move and I said “Who’s that?” and then he suddenly spoke to me in German.’

‘In German?’

Yes.’

Hugo released her gently. His face was determined.

‘I’m going in to have a look.’

‘Hugo! Stop! You’ll be killed.’

She stood there, rigid. The rain lashed about her, but she did not heed it. The lightning gleamed. She paid it no attention. For the minute that lasts an hour she waited, straining her ears for sounds of the death-struggle. Then a dim form appeared.

‘I say, Millicent.’

‘Hugo! Are you all right?’

Yes. I’m all right. I say, Millicent, do you know what?’

‘No, what?’

A chuckle came to her through the darkness.

‘It’s the pig.’

‘It’s what?’

‘The pig.’

‘Who’s a pig?’

‘This is. Your friend in here. It’s Empress of Blandings, as large as life. Come and have a look.’

Ill

Millicent had a look. She came to the door of the cottage and peered in. Yes, just as he had said, there was the Empress. In the feeble light of the match which Hugo was holding, the noble animal’s attractive face was peering up at her – questioningly, as if wondering if she might be the bearer of the evening snack which would be so exceedingly welcome. The picture was one which would have set Lord Emsworth screaming with joy. Millicent merely gaped.

‘How on earth did she get here?’

‘That’s what I’m going to find out,’ said Hugo. ‘One always knew she must be cached somewhere, of course. What is this place, anyway?’

‘It used to be a gamekeeper’s cottage, I believe.’

‘Well, there seems to be a room up above,’ said Hugo, striking another match. ‘I’m going to go up there and wait. It’s quite likely that somebody will be along to feed the animal, and I’m going to see who it is.’

‘Yes, that’s what we’ll do. How clever of you!’

‘Not you. You get back home.’

‘I won’t.’

There was a pause. A strong man would, no doubt, have asserted himself. But Hugo, though feeling better than he had done for days, was not feeling quite so strong as all that.

‘Just as you like.’ He shut the door. ‘Well, come on. We’d better be making a move. The fellow may be here at any moment.’

They climbed the crazy stairs and lowered themselves cautiously to a floor which smelled of mice and mildew. Below, all was in darkness, but there were holes through which it would be possible to look when the time should come for looking. Milli-cent could feel one near her face.

‘You don’t think this floor will give way?’ she asked rather nervously.

‘I shouldn’t think so. Why?’

‘Well, I don’t want to break my neck.’

‘You don’t, don’t you? Well, I would jolly well like to break mine,’ said Hugo, speaking tensely in the darkness. It had just occurred to him that now would be a good time for a heart-to-heart talk. ‘If you suppose I’m keen on going on living with you and Ronnie doing the Wedding Glide all over the place, you’re dashed well mistaken. I take it you’re aware that you’ve broken my bally heart, what?’

‘Oh, Hugo!’ said Millicent.

Silence fell. Below, the Empress rustled. Aloft, something scuttered.

‘Oo!’ cried Millicent. ‘Was that a rat?’

‘I hope so.’

‘What!’

‘Rats gnaw you,’ explained Hugo. ‘They cluster round and chew you to the bone and put an end to your misery.’

There was silence again. Then Millicent spoke in a small voice.

You’re being beastly,’ she said.

Remorse poured over Hugo in a flood.

‘I’m frightfully sorry. Yes, I know I am, dash it. But, look here, you know . . . I mean, all this getting engaged to Ronnie. A bit thick, what? You don’t expect me to give three hearty cheers, do you? Wouldn’t want me to break into a few carefree dance-steps?’

‘I can’t believe it’s really happened.’

‘Well, how did it happen?’

‘It sort of happened all of a sudden. I was feeling miserable and very angry with you and . . . and all that. And I met Ronnie and he took me for a stroll and we went down by the lake and started throwing little bits of stick at the swans, and suddenly Ronnie sort of grunted and said “I say!” and I said “Hullo?” and he said “Will you marry me?” and I said “All right,” and he said “I ought to warn you, I despise all women,” and I said “And I loathe all men” and he said “Right ho, I think we shall be very happy.”’

‘I see.’

‘I only did it to score off you.’

‘You succeeded.’

A trace of spirit crept into Millicent’s voice.

‘You never really loved me,’ she said. You know jolly well you didn’t.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Well, what did you want to go sneaking off to London for, then, and stuffing that beastly girl of yours with food?’

‘She isn’t my girl. And she isn’t beastly.’

‘She is.’

‘Well, you seem to get on with her all right. I saw you chatting on the terrace together as cosily as dammit.’

‘What!’

‘Miss Schoonmaker.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s Miss Schoonmaker got to do with it?’

‘Miss Schoonmaker isn’t Miss Schoonmaker. She’s Sue Brown.’

For a moment it seemed to Millicent that the crack in her companion’s heart had spread to his head. Futile though the action was, she stared in the direction from which his voice had proceeded. Then, suddenly, his words took on a meaning. She gasped.

‘She’s followed you down here!’

‘She hasn’t followed me down here. She’s followed Ronnie down here. Can’t you get it into your nut,’ said Hugo with justifiable exasperation, ‘that you’ve been making floaters and bloomers and getting everything mixed up all along? Sue Brown has never cared a curse for me, and I’ve never thought anything about her, except that she’s a jolly girl and nice to dance with. That’s absolutely and positively the only reason I went out with her. I hadn’t had a dance for six weeks and my feet had begun to itch so that I couldn’t sleep at night. So I went to London and took her out and Ronnie found her talking to that pestilence Pilbeam and thought he had taken her out and she had told him she didn’t even know the man, which was quite true, but Ronnie cut up rough and said he was through with her and came down here and she wanted to get a word with him, so she came down here, pretending to be Miss Schoonmaker, and the moment she gets here she finds Ronnie is engaged to you. A nice surprise for the poor girl!’

Millicent’s head had begun to swim long before the conclusion of this recital.

‘But what is Pilbeam doing down here?’

‘Pilbeam?’

‘He was on the terrace talking to her.’

A low snarl came through the darkness.

‘Pilbeam here? Ah! So he came, after all, did he? He’s the fellow Lord Emsworth sent me to, about the Empress. He runs the Argus Enquiry Agency. It was Pilbeam’s minions that dogged my steps that night, at your request. So he’s here, is he? Well, let him enjoy himself while he can. Let him sniff the country air while the sniffing is good. A bitter reckoning awaits that bloke.’

From the disorder of Millicent’s mind another point emerged insistently demanding explanation.

‘You said she wasn’t pretty!’

‘Who?’

‘Sue Brown.’

‘Nor she is.’

‘You don’t call her pretty? She’s fascinating.’

‘Not to me,’ said Hugo doggedly. ‘There’s only one girl in the world that I call pretty, and she’s going to marry Ronnie.’ He paused. ‘If you haven’t realized by this time that I love you, and always shall love you, and have never loved anybody else, and never shall love anybody else, you’re a fathead. If you brought me Sue Brown or any other girl in the world on a plate with water-cress round her, I wouldn’t so much as touch her hand.’

Another rat – unless it was an exceptionally large mouse – had begun to make its presence felt in the darkness. It seemed to be enjoying an early dinner off a piece of wood. Millicent did not even notice it. She had reached out, and her hand had touched Hugo’s arm. Her fingers closed on it desperately.

‘Oh, Hugo!’she said.

The arm became animated. It clutched her, drew her along the mouse-and-mildew-scented floor. And time stood still.

Hugo was the first to break the silence.

And to think that not so long ago I was wishing that a flash of lightning would strike me amidships!’ he said.

The aroma of mouse and mildew had passed away. Violets seemed to be spreading their fragrance through the cottage. Violets and roses. The rat, a noisy feeder, had changed into an orchestra of harps, dulcimers and sackbuts that played soft music.

And then, jarring upon these sweet strains, there came the sound of the cottage door opening. And a moment later light shone through the holes in the floor.

Millicent gave Hugo’s arm a warning pinch. They looked down. On the floor below stood a lantern, and beside it a man of massive build who, from the golloping noises that floated upwards, appeared to be giving the Empress those calories and proteins which a pig of her dimensions requires so often and in such large quantities.

This Good Samaritan had been stooping. Now he straightened himself and looked about him with an apprehensive eye. He raised the lantern, and its light fell upon his face.

And, as she saw that face, Millicent, forgetting prudence, uttered in a high, startled voice a single word.

‘Beach!’cried Millicent.

Down below, the butler stood congealed. It seemed to him that the Voice of Conscience had spoken.

IV

Conscience, besides having a musical voice, appeared also to be equipped with feet.

Beach could hear them clattering down the stairs, and the volume of noise was so great that it seemed as if Conscience must be a centipede. But he did not stir. It would have required at that moment a derrick to move him, and there was no derrick in the gamekeeper’s cottage in the West Wood. He was still standing like a statue when Hugo and Millicent arrived. Only when the identity of the new-comers impressed itself on his numbed senses did his limbs begin to twitch and show some signs of relaxing. For he looked on Hugo as a friend. Hugo, he felt, was one of the few people in his world who, finding him in his present questionable position, might be expected to take the broad and sympathetic view.

He nerved himself to speak.

‘Good evening, sir. Good evening, miss.’

‘What’s all this?’said Hugo.

Years ago, in his hot and reckless youth, Beach had once heard that question from the lips of a policeman. It had disconcerted him then. It disconcerted him now.

‘Well, sir,’ he replied.

Millicent was staring at the Empress, who, after one courteous look of inquiry at the intruders, had given a brief grunt of welcome and returned to the agenda.

‘You stole her, Beach? You!’