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One dislikes the necessity of perpetually piling up the evidence against the Hon. Galahad Threepwood, to show ever more and more clearly how warped was his moral outlook.

Nevertheless the fact must be stated that at these words he threw his head up and uttered a high, piercing laugh that sent the thrush, which had just returned to the lawn, starting back as if a bullet had hit it. It was a laugh which, when it had rung out in days of yore in London’s more lively night-resorts, had caused commissionaires to leap like war-horses at the note of the bugle, to spit on their hands, feel their muscles and prepare for action.

‘It’s the finest thing I ever heard!’ cried the Hon. Galahad. ‘It restores my faith in the younger generation. And a girl like you seriously contemplates marrying a boy like . . .

Oh, well!’ he said resignedly, seeming to brace himself to make the best of a distasteful state of affairs, ‘It’s your business, I suppose. You know your own mind best. After all, the great thing is to get you into the family. A girl like you is what this family has been needing for years.’

He patted her kindly on the shoulder, and they started to walk towards the house. As they did so, two men came out of it.

One was Lord Emsworth. The other was Percy Pilbeam.

II

There is about a place like Blandings Castle something which, if you are not in the habit of visiting country-houses planned on the grand scale, tends to sap the morale. At the moment when Sue caught sight of him, the proprietor of the Argus Enquiry Agency was not feeling his brightest and best.

Beach, ushering him through the front door, had started the trouble. He had merely let his eye rest upon Pilbeam, but it had been enough. The butler’s eye, through years of insufficient exercise and too hearty feeding, had acquired in the process of time a sort of glaze which many people found trying when they saw it. In Pilbeam it created an inferiority complex of the severest kind.

He could not know that to this godlike man he was merely a blur. To Beach, tortured by the pangs of a guilty conscience, almost everything nowadays was merely a blur.

Misinterpreting his gaze, Pilbeam had read into it a shocked contempt, a kind of wincing agony at the thought that things like himself should be creeping into Blandings Castle. He felt as if he had crawled out from under a flat stone.

And it was at this moment that somebody in the dimness of the hall had stepped forward and revealed himself as the young man, name unknown, who had showed such a lively disposition to murder him on the dancing-floor of Mario’s restaurant. And from the violent start which he gave, it was plain that the young man’s memory was as good as his own.

So far, things had not broken well for Percy Pilbeam. But now his luck turned. There had appeared in the nick of time an angel from heaven, effectively disguised in a shabby shooting-coat and an old hat. He had introduced himself as Lord Emsworth, and he had taken Pilbeam off with him into the garden. Looking back over his shoulder, Pilbeam saw that the young man was still standing there, staring after him – wistfully, it seemed to him; and he was glad, as he followed his host out into the fresh air, to be beyond the range of his eye. Between it and the eye of Beach, the butler, there seemed little to choose.

Relief, however, by the time he arrived on the terrace, had not completely restored his composure. That inferiority complex was still at work, and his surroundings intimidated him. At any moment, he felt, on a terrace like this, there might suddenly appear to confront him and complete his humiliation some brilliant shattering creature indigenous to this strange and disturbing world – a Duchess, perhaps – a haughty hunting woman it might be – the dashing daughter of a hundred Earls, possibly, who would look at him as Beach had looked at him and, raising beautifully pencilled eyebrows in aristocratic disdain, turn away with a murmured ‘Most extraordinary!’ He was prepared for almost anything.

One of the few things he was not prepared for was Sue. And at the sight of her he leaped three clear inches and nearly broke a collar stud.

‘Gawl’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Lord Emsworth. He had not caught his companion’s remark and hoped he would repeat it. The lightest utterance of a detective with the trained mind is something not to be missed. ‘What did you say, my dear fellow?’

He, too, perceived Sue; and with a prodigious effort of the memory, working by swift stages through Schofield, Maybury, Coolidge and Spooner, recalled her name.

‘Mr Pilbeam, Miss Schoonmaker,’ he said. ‘Galahad, this is Mr Pilbeam. Of the Argus, you remember.’

‘Pilbeam?’

‘How do you do?’

‘Pilbeam?’

‘My brother,’ said Lord Emsworth, exerting himself to complete the introduction. ‘This is my brother Galahad.’

‘Pilbeam?’ said the Hon. Galahad, looking intently at the proprietor of the Argus. ‘Were you ever connected with a paper called
Society Spice,
Mr Pilbeam?’

The gardens of Blandings Castle seemed to the detective to rock gently. There had, he knew, been a rigid rule in the office of that bright, but frequently offensive, paper that the editor’s name was never to be revealed to callers: but it now appeared only too sickeningly evident that a leakage had occurred. Underlings, he realized too late, can be bribed.

He swallowed painfully. Force of habit had come within a hair’s-breath of making him say ‘Quite.’

‘Never,’ he gasped. ‘Certainly not. No! Never.’

A fellow of your name used to edit it. Uncommon name, too.’

‘Relation, perhaps. Distant.’

‘Well, I’m sorry you’re not the man,’ said the Hon. Galahad regretfully. ‘I’ve been wanting to meet him. He wrote a very offensive thing about me once. Most offensive thing.’

Lord Emsworth, who had been according the conversation the rather meagre interest which he gave to all conversations that did not deal with pigs, created a diversion.

‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if you would like to see some photographs?’

It seemed to Pilbeam, in his disordered state, strange that anyone should suppose that he was in a frame of mind to enjoy the Family Album, but he uttered a strangled sound which his host took for acquiescence.

‘Of the Empress, I mean, of course. They will give you some idea of what a magnificent animal she is. They will . . .’ He sought for the
mot juste.
‘. . . stimulate you. I’ll go to the library and get them out.’

The Hon. Galahad was now his old, affable self again.

‘You doing anything after dinner?’ he asked Sue.

‘There was some talk,’ said Sue, ‘of a game of Bezique with Mr Baxter.’

‘Don’t dream of it,’ said the Hon. Galahad vehemently. ‘The fellow would probably try to brain you with the mallet. I was thinking that if I hadn’t got to go out to dinner I’d like to read you some of my book. I think you would appreciate it. I wouldn’t read it to anybody except you. I somehow feel you’ve got the right sort of outlook. I let my sister Constance see a couple of pages once, and she was too depressing for words. An author can’t work if people depress him. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you the thing to read.

Which is your room?’

‘The Garden Room, I think it’s called.’

‘Oh yes. Well, I’ll bring the manuscript to you before I leave.’

He sauntered off. There was a moment’s pause. Then Sue turned to Pilbeam. Her chin was tilted. There was defiance in her eye.

‘Well?’she said.

III

Percy Pilbeam breathed a sigh of relief. At the first moment of their meeting, all that he had ever read about doubles had raced through his mind. This question clarified the situation. It put matters on a firm basis. His head ceased to swim. It was Sue Brown and no other who stood before him.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Never mind.’

‘What’s the game?’

‘Never mind.’

‘There’s no need to be so dashed unfriendly.’

‘Well, if you must know, I came here to see Ronnie and try to explain about that night at Mario’s.’

There was a pause.

‘What was that name the old boy called you?’

‘Schoonmaker.’

‘Why did he call you that?’

‘Because that’s who he thinks I am.’

‘What on earth made you choose a name like that?’

‘Oh, don’t keep on asking questions.’

‘I don’t believe there is such a name. And when it comes to asking questions,’ said Pilbeam warmly, ‘what do you expect me to do? I never got such a shock in my life as when I met you just now. I thought I was seeing things. Do you mean to say you’re here under a false name, pretending to be somebody else?’

Yes.’

‘Well, I’m hanged! And as friendly as you please with everybody.’

Yes.’

‘Everybody except me.’

‘Why should I be friendly with you? You’ve done your best to ruin my life.’

‘Eh?’

‘Oh, never mind,’ said Sue impatiently.

There was another pause.

‘Chatty!’ said Pilbeam, wounded again.

He fidgeted his fingers along the wall.

‘That Galahad fellow seems to look on you as a daughter or something.’

‘We are great friends.’

‘So I see. And he’s going to give you his book to read.’

‘Yes.’

A keen, purposeful, Argus-Enquiry-Agent sort of look shot into Pilbeam’s face.

‘Well, this is where you and I get together,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll tell you what I mean. Do you want to make some money?’

‘No,’ said Sue.

‘What! Of course you do. Everybody does. Now listen. Do you know why I’m here?’

‘I’ve stopped wondering why you’re anywhere. You just seem to pop up.’

She started to move away. A sudden, disturbing thought had come to her. At any moment Ronnie might appear on the terrace. If he found her here, closeted, so to speak, with the abominable Pilbeam, what would he think? What, rather, would he not think?

‘Where are you going?’

‘Into the house.’

‘Come back,’ said Pilbeam urgently.

‘I’m going.’

‘But I’ve got something important to say.’

‘Well?’

She stopped.

‘That’s right,’ said Pilbeam approvingly. ‘Now listen. You’ll admit that, if I liked, I could give you away and spoil whatever game it is that you’re up to in this place?’

‘Well?’

‘But I’m not going to do it. If you’ll be sensible.’

‘Sensible?’

Pilbeam looked cautiously up and down the terrace.

‘Now listen,’ he said. ‘I want your help. I’ll tell you why I’m here. The old boy thinks I’ve come down to find his pig, but I haven’t. I’ve come to get that book your friend Galahad is writing.’

‘What!’

‘I thought you’d be surprised. Yes, that’s what I’m after. There’s a man living near here who’s scared stiff that there’s going to be a lot of stories about him in that book, and he came to see me at my office yesterday and offered me . . .’ He hesitated a moment.

‘. . . Offered me,’ he went on, ‘a hundred pounds if I’d get into the house somehow and snitch the manuscript. And you being friendly with the old buster has made everything simple.’

You think so?’

‘Easy,’ he assured her. ‘Especially now he’s going to give you the thing to read. All you have to do is hand it over to me, and there’s fifty quid for you. For doing practically nothing.’

Sue’s eyes lit up. Pilbeam had expected that they would. He could not conceive of a girl whose eyes would not light up at such an offer.

‘Oh?’said Sue.

‘Fifty quid,’ said Pilbeam. ‘I’m going halves with you.’

‘And if I don’t do what you want I suppose you will tell them who I really am?’

‘That’s it,’ said Pilbeam, pleased at her ready intelligence.

‘Well, I’m not going to do anything of the kind.’

‘What!’

‘And if,’ said Sue, ‘you want to tell these people who I am, go ahead and tell them.’

‘I will.’

‘Do. But just bear in mind that the moment you do I shall tell Mr Threepwood that it was you who wrote that thing about him in
Society Spice.
’

Percy Pilbeam swayed like a sapling in the breeze. The blow had unmanned him. He found no words with which to reply.

‘I will,’ said Sue.

Pilbeam continued speechless. He was still trying to recover from this deadly thrust through an unexpected chink in his armour when the opportunity for speech passed.

Millicent had appeared, and was walking along the terrace towards them. She wore her customary air of settled gloom. On reaching them, she paused.

‘Hullo,’ said Millicent, from the depths.

‘Hullo,’ said Sue.

The library window framed the head and shoulders of Lord Emsworth.

‘Pilbeam, my dear fellow, will you come up to the library. I have found the photographs.’

Millicent eyed the detective’s retreating back with a mournful curiosity.

‘Who’s he?’

A man named Pilbeam.’

Till, I should say, is right. What makes him waddle like that?’

Sue was unable to supply a solution to this problem. Millicent came and stood beside her, and, leaning on the stone parapet, gazed disparagingly at the park. She gave the impression of disliking all parks, but this one particularly.

‘Ever read Schopenhauer?’ she asked, after a silence.

‘No.’

‘You should. Great stuff.’

She fell into a heavy silence again, her eyes peering into the gathering gloom.

Somewhere in the twilight world a cow had begun to emit long, nerve-racking bellows.

The sound seemed to sum up and underline the general sadness.

‘Schopenhauer says that all the suffering in the world can’t be mere chance. Must be meant. He says life’s a mixture of suffering and boredom. You’ve got to have one or the other. His stuff’s full of snappy cracks like that. You’d enjoy it. Well, I’m going for a walk. You coming?’

‘I don’t think I will, thanks.’

‘Just as you like. Schopenhauer says suicide’s absolutely O.K. He says Hindoos do it instead of going to church. They bung themselves into the Ganges and get eaten by crocodiles and call it a well-spent day.’

‘What a lot you seem to know about Schopenhauer.’