CHAPTER XXIV

SENSATIONAL TURNING OF A WORM

To this remarkable metamorphosis in Mr. Peter Pett several causes had contributed.  In the first place, the sudden dismissal of Jerry Mitchell had obliged him to go two days without the physical exercises to which his system had become accustomed, and this had produced a heavy, irritable condition of body and mind.  He had brooded on the injustice of his lot until he had almost worked himself up to rebellion.  And then, as sometimes happened with him when he was out of sorts, a touch of gout came to add to his troubles.  Being a patient man by nature, he might have borne up against these trials, had he been granted an adequate night’s rest.  But, just as he had dropped off after tossing restlessly for two hours, things had begun to happen noisily in the library.  He awoke to a vague realisation of tumult below.

Such was the morose condition of his mind as the result of his misfortune that at first not even the cries for help could interest him sufficiently to induce him to leave his bed.  He knew that walking in his present state would be painful, and he declined to submit to any more pain just because some party unknown was apparently being murdered in his library.  It was not until the shrill barking of the dog Aida penetrated right in among his nerve-centres and began to tie them into knots that he found himself compelled to descend.  Even when he did so, it was in no spirit of kindness.  He did not come to rescue anybody or to interfere between any murderer and his victim.  He came in a fever of militant wrath to suppress Aida.  On the threshold of the library, however, the genius, by treading on his gouty foot, had diverted his anger and caused it to become more general.  He had not ceased to concentrate his venom on Aida.  He wanted to assail everybody.

“What’s the matter here?” he demanded, red-eyed.  “Isn’t somebody going to tell me?  Have I got to stop here all night?  Who on earth is this?” He glared at Miss Trimble.  “What’s she doing with that pistol?” He stamped incautiously with his bad foot, and emitted a dry howl of anguish.

“She is a detective, Peter,” said Mrs. Pett timidly.

“A detective?  Why?  Where did she come from?”

Miss Trimble took it upon herself to explain.

“Mister Pett, siz Pett sent f’r me t’ watch out so’s nobody kidnapped her son.”

“Oggie,” explained Mrs. Pett.  “Miss Trimble was guarding darling Oggie.”

“Why?”

“To—­to prevent him being kidnapped, Peter.”

Mr. Pett glowered at the stout boy.  Then his eye was attracted by the forlorn figure of Jerry Mitchell.  He started.

“Was this fellow kidnapping the boy?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Miss Trimble.  “Caught h’m with th’ goods.  He w’s waiting outside there with a car.  I held h’m and this other guy up w’th a gun and brought ’em back!”