Lionel had kicked in the door.
Martin Luther led the way back, his tail at the proud perpendicular of conscious rectitude. He had done a good evening's work and that, too, under most trying conditions. Human beings, he reflected, were all very well in their way—unquestionably they had their uses, at times they were even necessary (when one falls into a canal, for instance), but their deplorable ignorance of mewing, beyond such elementary phrases as "Please give me some milk," or "Oblige me by opening this door," was excessively annoying.
Lionel had raced ahead to carry the joyful news to the countess. Tucked safely away in his pocket was a remnant, snatched from the burning of the sinful pink newspaper, not, it is to be feared, the portion least deserving of fiery punishment.
And now Horatio, arriving at the bank which Harriet had descended with such unpremeditated energy a short time before, placed the candle upon the ground to assist his wife up the steep incline. Here his eye fell upon an oblong piece of paper lying on the grass close to the candle-stick and glistening in the yellow light. As he picked it up the word "Reginal" caught his eye. It was a page of An Petronia's novel, the "Misforchins of Reginal." The curate put the paper in his pocket to return to the little girl, and, in another minute, he had forgotten all about it.
CHAPTER XIX
THE MISSING PAGE
Robert Baxter was the first to hear the good news, and, being a young man of few words, he lighted a candle and made straight for the wine cellar. In a few moments he returned empty handed.
"It's mighty funny," he said to Lionel. "There was a whole case last week—all but one quart, and it's disappeared, case and all! And what's more, that '66 brandy is gone, too. I'm certain there were at least half a dozen left. What do you make of it?"
Lionel tugged at his mustache.
"Well, if you ask me, old chap, I don't mind telling you I never did like the cut of Parker's sidewhiskers."