no disguise to soften the shock when Parker found himself confronted. Then, peeping through the curtains, he prepared to spring.
Osbert did not spring. Instead, he shrank back like a more than ordinarily diffident tortoise into its shell, and tried to achieve the maximum of silence by breathing through his ears. For it was no Parker who had entered, no frivolous lady-friend, but a couple of plug-uglies of such outstanding physique that Bashford Braddock might have been the little brother of either of them.
Osbert stood petrified. He had never seen a burglar before, and he wished, now that he was seeing these, that it could have been arranged for him to do so through a telescope. At this close range, they gave him much the same feeling the prophet Daniel must have had on entering the lions' den, before his relations with the animals had been established on their subsequent basis of easy camaraderie. He was thankful that when the breath which he had been holding for some eighty seconds at length forced itself out in a loud gasp, the noise was drowned by the popping of a cork.
It was from a bottle of Osbert's best Bollinger that this cork had been removed. The marauders, he was able to see, were men who believed in doing themselves well. In these days when almost everybody is on some sort of diet it is rarely that one comes across the old-fashioned type of diner who does not worry about balanced meals and calories but just squares his shoulders and goes at it till his eyes bubble. Osbert's two guests plainly belonged to this nearly obsolete species. They were drinking out of tankards and eating three varieties of meat simultaneously, as if no such thing as a high blood-pressure had ever been invented. A second pop announced the opening of another quart of champagne.
At the outset of the proceedings, there had been little or nothing in the way of supper-table conversation. But now, the first keen edge of his appetite satisfied by about three pounds of ham, beef and mutton, the burglar who sat nearest to Osbert was able to relax. He looked about him approvingly.
'Nice little crib, this, Ernest,' he said.
'R!' replied his companion – a man of few words, and those somewhat impeded by cold potatoes and bread.
'Must have been some real swells in here one time and another.'
'R!'
'Baronets and such, I wouldn't be surprised.'
'R!' said the second burglar, helping himself to more champagne and mixing in a little port, sherry, Italian vermouth, old brandy and green Chartreuse to give it body.
The first burglar looked thoughtful.
'Talking of baronets,' he said, 'a thing I've often wondered is – well, suppose you're having a dinner, see?'
'R!'
'As it might be in this very room.'
'R!'
'Well, would a baronet's sister go in before the daughter of the younger son of a peer? I've often wondered about that.'
The second burglar finished his champagne, port, sherry, Italian vermouth, old brandy and green Chartreuse, and mixed himself another.
'Go in?'
'Go in to dinner.'
'If she was quicker on her feet, she would,' said the second burglar. 'She'd get to the door first. Stands to reason.'
The first burglar raised his eyebrows.
'Ernest,' he said coldly, 'you talk like an uneducated son of a what-not. Haven't you never been taught nothing about the rules and manners of good Society?'
The second burglar flushed. It was plain that the rebuke had touched a tender spot. There was a strained silence. The first burglar resumed his meal. The second burglar watched him with a hostile eye. He had the air of a man who is waiting for his chance, and it was not long before he found it.
'Harold,' he said.
'Well?' said the first burglar.
'Don't gollup your food, Harold,' said the second burglar.
The first burglar started. His eyes gleamed with sudden fury. His armour, like his companion's, had been pierced.
'Who's golluping his food?'
'You
Osbert did not spring. Instead, he shrank back like a more than ordinarily diffident tortoise into its shell, and tried to achieve the maximum of silence by breathing through his ears. For it was no Parker who had entered, no frivolous lady-friend, but a couple of plug-uglies of such outstanding physique that Bashford Braddock might have been the little brother of either of them.
Osbert stood petrified. He had never seen a burglar before, and he wished, now that he was seeing these, that it could have been arranged for him to do so through a telescope. At this close range, they gave him much the same feeling the prophet Daniel must have had on entering the lions' den, before his relations with the animals had been established on their subsequent basis of easy camaraderie. He was thankful that when the breath which he had been holding for some eighty seconds at length forced itself out in a loud gasp, the noise was drowned by the popping of a cork.
It was from a bottle of Osbert's best Bollinger that this cork had been removed. The marauders, he was able to see, were men who believed in doing themselves well. In these days when almost everybody is on some sort of diet it is rarely that one comes across the old-fashioned type of diner who does not worry about balanced meals and calories but just squares his shoulders and goes at it till his eyes bubble. Osbert's two guests plainly belonged to this nearly obsolete species. They were drinking out of tankards and eating three varieties of meat simultaneously, as if no such thing as a high blood-pressure had ever been invented. A second pop announced the opening of another quart of champagne.
At the outset of the proceedings, there had been little or nothing in the way of supper-table conversation. But now, the first keen edge of his appetite satisfied by about three pounds of ham, beef and mutton, the burglar who sat nearest to Osbert was able to relax. He looked about him approvingly.
'Nice little crib, this, Ernest,' he said.
'R!' replied his companion – a man of few words, and those somewhat impeded by cold potatoes and bread.
'Must have been some real swells in here one time and another.'
'R!'
'Baronets and such, I wouldn't be surprised.'
'R!' said the second burglar, helping himself to more champagne and mixing in a little port, sherry, Italian vermouth, old brandy and green Chartreuse to give it body.
The first burglar looked thoughtful.
'Talking of baronets,' he said, 'a thing I've often wondered is – well, suppose you're having a dinner, see?'
'R!'
'As it might be in this very room.'
'R!'
'Well, would a baronet's sister go in before the daughter of the younger son of a peer? I've often wondered about that.'
The second burglar finished his champagne, port, sherry, Italian vermouth, old brandy and green Chartreuse, and mixed himself another.
'Go in?'
'Go in to dinner.'
'If she was quicker on her feet, she would,' said the second burglar. 'She'd get to the door first. Stands to reason.'
The first burglar raised his eyebrows.
'Ernest,' he said coldly, 'you talk like an uneducated son of a what-not. Haven't you never been taught nothing about the rules and manners of good Society?'
The second burglar flushed. It was plain that the rebuke had touched a tender spot. There was a strained silence. The first burglar resumed his meal. The second burglar watched him with a hostile eye. He had the air of a man who is waiting for his chance, and it was not long before he found it.
'Harold,' he said.
'Well?' said the first burglar.
'Don't gollup your food, Harold,' said the second burglar.
The first burglar started. His eyes gleamed with sudden fury. His armour, like his companion's, had been pierced.
'Who's golluping his food?'
'You
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