There was a rush and scurry in the corridors of Mr. Crocker’s brain, as about six different thoughts tried to squash simultaneously into that main chamber where there is room for only one at a time.  He understood now why this woman’s appearance had seemed familiar.  She was his wife’s sister, and that same Nesta who was some day to be pulverised by the sight of his name in the Birthday Honours.  He was profoundly thankful that she had mistaken him for the butler.  A chill passed through him as he pictured what would have been Eugenia’s reception of the information that he had committed such a bourgeois solecism as opening the front door to Mrs. Pett of all people, who already despised him as a low vulgarian.  There had been trouble enough when she had found him opening it a few weeks before to a mere collector of subscriptions for a charity.  He perceived, with a clarity remarkable in view of the fact that the discovery of her identity had given him a feeling of physical dizziness, that at all costs he must foster this misapprehension on his sister-in-law’s part.

Fortunately he was in a position to do so.  He knew all about what butlers did and what they said on these occasions, for in his innocently curious way he had often pumped Bayliss on the subject.  He bowed silently and led the way to the morning-room, followed by the drove of Petts:  then, opening the door, stood aside to allow the procession to march past the given point.

“I will inform Mrs. Crocker that you are here, madam.”

Mrs. Pett, shepherding the chewing child before her, passed into the room.  In the light of her outspoken sentiments regarding her brother-in-law, it is curious to reflect that his manner at this, their first meeting, had deeply impressed her.  After many months of smouldering revolt she had dismissed her own butler a day or so before sailing for England, and for the first time envy of her sister Eugenia gripped her.  She did not covet Eugenia’s other worldly possessions, but she did grudge her this supreme butler.

Mr. Pett, meanwhile, had been trailing in the rear with a hunted expression on his face.  He wore the unmistakable look of a man about to be present at a row between women, and only a wet cat in a strange back-yard bears itself with less jauntiness than a man faced by such a prospect.  A millionaire several times over, Mr. Pett would cheerfully have given much of his wealth to have been elsewhere at that moment.  Such was the agitated state of his mind that, when a hand was laid lightly upon his arm as he was about to follow his wife into the room, he started so violently that his hat flew out of his hand.  He turned to meet the eyes of the butler who had admitted him to the house, fixed on his in an appealing stare.

“Who’s leading in the pennant race?” said this strange butler in a feverish whisper.

It was a question, coming from such a source, which in another than Mr. Pett might well have provoked a blank stare of amazement.  Such, however, is the almost superhuman intelligence and quickness of mind engendered by the study of America’s national game that he answered without the slightest hesitation.