"But he might kill me at any moment," protested Jane.

"Not at any moment; he's busy with the silver all the evening."

"You'll have to keep a sharp look-out all the time and be on your guard to frustrate any murderous attack," exclaimed Jane, adding in a tone of weak obstinacy: "It's a dreadful situation to be in, with a mad butler dangling over you like the sword of What's-his-name, but I'm certainly not going to cut my visit short."

Clovis swore horribly under his breath; the miracle was an obvious misfire.

It was in the hall the next morning after a late breakfast that Clovis had his final inspiration as he stood engaged in coaxing rust spots from an old putter.

"Where is Miss Martlet?" he asked the butler, whom was at that moment crossing the hall.

"Writing letters in the morning-room, sir," exclaimed Sturridge, announcing a fact of which his questioner was already aware.