“Jerry,” said Mr. Pett, “it wasn’t your fault that you didn’t bring it off, and I’m going to treat you right.  You’d have done it if nobody had butted in to stop you.  You’ll get the money to start that health-farm of yours all right.  I’ll see to that.  Now you run off to bed.  There’s nothing to keep you here.”

“Say!” cried Miss Trimble, outraged.  “D’ya mean t’ say y’ aren’t going t’ pros’cute?  Why, aren’t I tell’ng y’ I caught h’m kidnapping th’ boy?”

“I told him to kidnap the boy!” snarled Mr. Pett.

“Peter!”

Mr. Pett looked like an under-sized lion as he faced his wife.  He bristled.  The recollection of all that he had suffered from Ogden came to strengthen his determination.

“I’ve tried for two years to get you to send that boy to a good boarding-school, and you wouldn’t do it.  I couldn’t stand having him loafing around the house any longer, so I told Jerry Mitchell to take him away to a friend of his who keeps a dogs’ hospital on Long Island and to tell his friend to hold him there till he got some sense into him.  Well, you’ve spoiled that for the moment with your detectives, but it still looks good to me.  I’ll give you a choice.  You can either send that boy to a boarding-school next week, or he goes to Jerry Mitchell’s friend.  I’m not going to have him in the house any longer, loafing in my chair and smoking my cigarettes.  Which is it to be?”

“But, Peter!”

“Well?”

“If I send him to a school, he may be kidnapped.”

“Kidnapping can’t hurt him.  It’s what he needs.  And, anyway, if he is I’ll pay the bill and be glad to do it.  Take him off to bed now.  To-morrow you can start looking up schools.  Great Godfrey!” He hopped to the writing-desk and glared disgustedly at the debris on it.  “Who’s been making this mess on my desk?  It’s hard!  It’s darned hard!  The only room in the house that I ask to have for my own, where I can get a little peace, and I find it turned into a beer-garden, and coffee or some damned thing spilled all over my writing-desk!”

“That isn’t coffee, Peter,” said Mrs. Pett mildly.  This cave-man whom she had married under the impression that he was a gentle domestic pet had taken all the spirit out of her.  “It’s Willie’s explosive.”

“Willie’s explosive?”

“Lord Wisbeach—­I mean the man who pretended to be Lord Wisbeach—­dropped it there.”

“Dropped it there?  Well, why didn’t it explode and blow the place to Hoboken, then?”

Mrs. Pett looked helplessly at Willie, who thrust his fingers into his mop of hair and rolled his eyes.

“There was fortunately some slight miscalculation in my formula, uncle Peter,” he said.  “I shall have to look into it to-morrow.  Whether the trinitrotoluol—­”

Mr. Pett uttered a sharp howl.  He beat the air with his clenched fists.  He seemed to be having a brain-storm.