Part 11 (1/2)
”Here!” came an angry shout from inside. ”Who's that? What the devil----”
”You low ole caitiff!” said William through the keyhole.
”Who the deuce----?” exploded the voice.
”You base wretch, like wot she said you was,” bawled William, his mouth still applied closely to the keyhole.
”Let me out at once, or I'll--”
”You mean ole oppressor!”
”Who the deuce are you? What's this tomfool trick? Let me _out_! Do you hear?”
A resounding kick shook the door.
”I've gotter pistol,” said William sternly. ”I'll shoot you dead if you kick the door down, you mangy ole beast!”
The sound of kicking ceased and a scrambling and sc.r.a.ping, accompanied by oaths, proceeded from the interior.
”I'll stay on guard,” said William with the tense expression of the soldier at his post, ”an' you go an' set her free. Go an' blow the bugle at the front door, then they'll know something's happened,” he added simply.
Miss Priscilla Greene was pouring out tea in the drawing-room. Two young men and a maiden were the recipients of her hospitality.
”Dad will be here in a minute,” she said. ”He's just gone to the dark-room to see to some photos he'd left in toning or fixing, or something. We'll get on with the rehearsal as soon as he comes. We'd just rehea.r.s.ed the scene he and I have together, so we're ready for the ones where we all come in.”
”How did it go off?”
”Oh, quite well. We knew our parts, anyway.”
”I think the village will enjoy it.”
”Anyway, it's never very critical, is it? And it loves a melodrama.”
”Yes. I wonder if father knows you're here. He said he'd come straight back. Perhaps I'd better go and find him.”
”Oh, let me go, Miss Greene,” said one of the youths ardently.
”Well, I don't know whether you'd find the place. It's a shed in the garden that he uses. We use half as a dark-room and half as a coal-cellar.”
”I'll go--”
He stopped. A nightmare sound, as discordant as it was ear-splitting, filled the room. Miss Greene sank back into her chair, suddenly white.
One of the young men let a cup of tea fall neatly from his fingers on to the floor and there crash into fragments. The young lady visitor emitted a scream that would have done credit to a factory siren. Then at the open French window appeared a small boy holding a bugle, purple-faced with the effort of his performance.
One of the young men was the first to recover speech. He stepped away from the broken crockery on the floor as if to disclaim all responsibility for it and said sternly:
”Did you make that horrible noise?”
Miss Greene began to laugh hysterically.