For a fortnight nothing happened.  Then the hand was caught, not by the dogs, but by Mrs. Merrit’s gray parrot.  The bird was in the habit of periodically removing the pins that kept its seed and water tins in place, and of escaping through the holes in the side of the cage.  When once at liberty Peter would show no inclination to return, and would often be about the house for days.  Now, after six consecutive weeks of captivity, Peter had again discovered a new means of unloosing his bolts and was at large, exploring the tapestried forests of the curtains and singing songs in praise of liberty from cornice and picture rail.

“It’s no use your trying to catch him,” said Eustace to Mrs. Merrit, as she came into the study one afternoon towards dusk with a step-ladder.  “You’d much better leave Peter alone.  Starve him into surrender, Mrs. Merrit, and don’t leave bananas and seed about for him to peck at when he fancies he’s hungry.  You’re far too softhearted.”

“Well, sir, I see he’s right out of reach now on that picture rail, so if you wouldn’t mind closing the door, sir, when you leave the room, I’ll bring his cage in to-night and put some meat inside it.  He’s that fond of meat, though it does make him pull out his feathers to suck the quills.  They do say that if you cook—­”

“Never mind, Mrs. Merrit,” said Eustace, who was busy writing.  “That will do; I’ll keep an eye on the bird.”

There was silence in the room, unbroken but for the continuous whisper of his pen.

“Scratch poor Peter,” said the bird.  “Scratch poor old Peter!”

“Be quiet, you beastly bird!”

“Poor old Peter!  Scratch poor Peter, do.”

“I’m more likely to wring your neck if I get hold of you.”  He looked up at the picture rail, and there was the hand holding on to a hook with three fingers, and slowly scratching the head of the parrot with the fourth.  Eustace ran to the bell and pressed it hard; then across to the window, which he closed with a bang.  Frightened by the noise the parrot shook its wings preparatory to flight, and as it did so the fingers of the hand got hold of it by the throat.  There was a shrill scream from Peter as he fluttered across the room, wheeling round in circles that ever descended, borne down under the weight that clung to him.  The bird dropped at last quite suddenly, and Eustace saw fingers and feathers rolled into an inextricable mass on the floor.  The struggle abruptly ceased as finger and thumb squeezed the neck; the bird’s eyes rolled up to show the whites, and there was a faint, half-choked gurgle.  But before the fingers had time to loose their hold, Eustace had them in his own.

“Send Mr. Saunders here at once,” he said to the maid who came in answer to the bell.  “Tell him I want him immediately.”

Then he went with the hand to the fire.  There was a ragged gash across the back where the bird’s beak had torn it, but no blood oozed from the wound.  He noticed with disgust that the nails had grown long and discolored.