Part 27 (1/2)

There are moments in a chappie's life, don't you know, when Reason, so to speak, totters, as it were, on its bally throne. This was one of them. The situation seemed somehow to have got out of my grip. I suppose, strictly speaking, I ought, at this juncture, to have cleared my throat and said in an audible tone, ”Harold, old top, _I_ know where Ponsonby is.” But somehow I couldn't. Something seemed to keep the words back. I just stood there and said nothing.

”n.o.body seems to have seen anything of him,” said Harold. ”I wonder where he can have got to.”

Hilda came in, looking so happy I hardly recognized her. I remember feeling how strange it was that anybody could be happy just then.

”_I_ know,” she said. ”Of course! Doesn't he always go off to the inn and play bowls at this time?”

”Why, of course,” said Harold. ”So he does.”

And he asked Ann to play something on the piano. And pretty soon we had settled down to a regular jolly musical evening. Ann must have played a matter of two or three thousand tunes, when Harold got up.

”By the way,” he said. ”I suppose he did what I told him about the picture before he went out. Let's go and see.”

”Oh, Harold, what does it matter?” asked Hilda.

”Don't be silly, Harold,” said Ann.

I would have said the same thing, only I couldn't say anything.

Harold wasn't to be stopped. He led the way out of the room and upstairs, and we all trailed after him. We had just reached the top floor, when Hilda stopped, and said ”Hark!”

It was a voice.

”Hi!” it said. ”Hi!”

Harold legged it to the door of the studio. ”Ponsonby?”

From within came the voice again, and I have never heard anything to touch the combined pathos, dignity and indignation it managed to condense into two words.

”Yes, sir?”

”What on earth are you doing in there?”

”I came here, sir, in accordance with your instructions on the telephone, and----”

Harold rattled the door. ”The darned thing's stuck.”

”Yes, sir.”

”How on earth did that happen?”

”I could not say, sir.”