in to dinner in precisely three minutes’ time.”
“I fear the summons will be of no avail, my lady. Saturn has gone retrograde.”
“How bothersome of Saturn,” drawled Mrs. Swiveltree. “Couldn’t it have waited until after dinner? Now your table won’t balance, Honoria.”
“Her Dowager Ladyship will not emerge from her rooms again until Mars enters the house of Leo,” Miss Twiddle explained with that meek stubbornness which the rich and powerful find so exasperating in the genteel poor.
“Then you must take her place, Twiddle,” said Lady Ditherby-Stoat. “I cannot allow Saturn to upset my seating arrangements. Mr. Whipsnade, you will take in Miss Twiddle.”
“And serve him right,” whispered the incorrigible Ermentine.
Whatever retort Gerald Potherton might have made was lost in the stir that greeted the butler’s return. Abandoning all pretense at detachment, Lord Ditherby-Stoat hastened to meet him at the drawing-room door. Almost at once, it became apparent to the entire company that the majestic, the impassive Figgleton was in a state of near-collapse. “My lord,” he gasped to the eminent statesman now so anxiously confronting him, “the plans for the Beaird-Wynnington Dirigible Airship are—”
Even as the word gone formed on his lips, the faithful retainer collapsed and expired at his master’s feet.
“’E ’as—’ow you say—faint!” cried Mme. Vigée-Lenoir.
“I fear not,” responded A. Lysander Hellespont, whose dilettante manner masked keen powers of observation. “That trickle of gore on his shirtfront and the knifelike object protruding from the region of the heart would rather indicate that Figgleton has been stabbed.”
“You are right,” confirmed Lord Ditherby-Stoat. “With a chastely ornamented gold-handled dagger such as might with propriety be carried by any lady or gentleman in full evening dress. My dear, I confess myself at a loss as to the handling of this untoward occurrence.”
“There is only one thing to do,” said Lady-Ditherby-Stoat. Touching the bell, she summoned a footman. “James, remove Figgleton’s corpse to the butler’s pantry and tell Frederick to pour the hock. Mr. Hellespont, will you give me your arm?”
Picking up her cue, Lord Ditherby-Stoat offered his arm to the succulent Mme. Vigée-Lenoir, leaving Mrs. Swiveltree, much to her dismay, to be escorted by the bearlike Russian count. Ermentine and Gerald, needless to say, were not to be parted. Nervous but ever-dutiful, the mouselike Miss Twiddle brought up the rear with Mr. Whipsnade.
One could hardly have expected gaiety to prevail among a company that had just witnessed the dreadful consequences of a murder, for murder it must have been. Even Lady Ditherby-Stoat appeared a trifle distraite as she discussed the novels of Lord Beaconsfield with Mr. Hellespont. It was Mme. Vigée-Lenoir who managed to choke off Mr. Whipsnade’s dismal rehashing of the horrendous event and save the occasion from degenerating into a mourning party. With flashing smile and vivacious wit, she managed to lift all spirits save those of Miss Twiddle, to whom gaiety would have been inappropriate, and Count Bratvuschenko, who continued to deplore the barbarous English custom of not allowing glassware to be smashed while he gourmandized freely among the many dainties proffered by the assiduous footmen who were valiantly upholding the hospitable tradition of Haverings even as their mentor Mr. Figgleton lay stiffening behind the baize doors with his pantry book laid upon his dagger-pierced bosom as a final token of respect.
Nor did Whipsnade enter into the spirit of stiff-upper-lip and play-the-game. His countenance grew steadily more dour as he responded in curt monosyllables to Miss Twiddle’s feeble attempts to make proper dinner-table conversation.
“He’s worried about which fork to use,” Ermentine murmured wickedly to Gerald.
But Whipsnade’s perturbation pierced far deeper than any fish
“I fear the summons will be of no avail, my lady. Saturn has gone retrograde.”
“How bothersome of Saturn,” drawled Mrs. Swiveltree. “Couldn’t it have waited until after dinner? Now your table won’t balance, Honoria.”
“Her Dowager Ladyship will not emerge from her rooms again until Mars enters the house of Leo,” Miss Twiddle explained with that meek stubbornness which the rich and powerful find so exasperating in the genteel poor.
“Then you must take her place, Twiddle,” said Lady Ditherby-Stoat. “I cannot allow Saturn to upset my seating arrangements. Mr. Whipsnade, you will take in Miss Twiddle.”
“And serve him right,” whispered the incorrigible Ermentine.
Whatever retort Gerald Potherton might have made was lost in the stir that greeted the butler’s return. Abandoning all pretense at detachment, Lord Ditherby-Stoat hastened to meet him at the drawing-room door. Almost at once, it became apparent to the entire company that the majestic, the impassive Figgleton was in a state of near-collapse. “My lord,” he gasped to the eminent statesman now so anxiously confronting him, “the plans for the Beaird-Wynnington Dirigible Airship are—”
Even as the word gone formed on his lips, the faithful retainer collapsed and expired at his master’s feet.
“’E ’as—’ow you say—faint!” cried Mme. Vigée-Lenoir.
“I fear not,” responded A. Lysander Hellespont, whose dilettante manner masked keen powers of observation. “That trickle of gore on his shirtfront and the knifelike object protruding from the region of the heart would rather indicate that Figgleton has been stabbed.”
“You are right,” confirmed Lord Ditherby-Stoat. “With a chastely ornamented gold-handled dagger such as might with propriety be carried by any lady or gentleman in full evening dress. My dear, I confess myself at a loss as to the handling of this untoward occurrence.”
“There is only one thing to do,” said Lady-Ditherby-Stoat. Touching the bell, she summoned a footman. “James, remove Figgleton’s corpse to the butler’s pantry and tell Frederick to pour the hock. Mr. Hellespont, will you give me your arm?”
Picking up her cue, Lord Ditherby-Stoat offered his arm to the succulent Mme. Vigée-Lenoir, leaving Mrs. Swiveltree, much to her dismay, to be escorted by the bearlike Russian count. Ermentine and Gerald, needless to say, were not to be parted. Nervous but ever-dutiful, the mouselike Miss Twiddle brought up the rear with Mr. Whipsnade.
One could hardly have expected gaiety to prevail among a company that had just witnessed the dreadful consequences of a murder, for murder it must have been. Even Lady Ditherby-Stoat appeared a trifle distraite as she discussed the novels of Lord Beaconsfield with Mr. Hellespont. It was Mme. Vigée-Lenoir who managed to choke off Mr. Whipsnade’s dismal rehashing of the horrendous event and save the occasion from degenerating into a mourning party. With flashing smile and vivacious wit, she managed to lift all spirits save those of Miss Twiddle, to whom gaiety would have been inappropriate, and Count Bratvuschenko, who continued to deplore the barbarous English custom of not allowing glassware to be smashed while he gourmandized freely among the many dainties proffered by the assiduous footmen who were valiantly upholding the hospitable tradition of Haverings even as their mentor Mr. Figgleton lay stiffening behind the baize doors with his pantry book laid upon his dagger-pierced bosom as a final token of respect.
Nor did Whipsnade enter into the spirit of stiff-upper-lip and play-the-game. His countenance grew steadily more dour as he responded in curt monosyllables to Miss Twiddle’s feeble attempts to make proper dinner-table conversation.
“He’s worried about which fork to use,” Ermentine murmured wickedly to Gerald.
But Whipsnade’s perturbation pierced far deeper than any fish
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