There was no bluff about it.
"Call her up," he urged, "and tell her I am a lunatic whose worst mania is killing people in their sleep."
"It's likely that she would believe a tale that wagged like that, and she would hate you forever afterward."
"What the devil do I care?" he screamed. "Let her hate all she likes provided she stays away."
"Call her yourself," I said, "and tell her so. It's your funeral, not mine."
Straight to the telephone he went and did so, not in the language he had used to me. It was apologetic and diplomatic in the extreme, but it let her know very definitely that she could not come. She did not come, and she never darkened our door again; and there is very little doubt in my mind but that she regarded me as the culprit and Mr. Saltus as the scapegoat forced to do an unpardonable act. She probably concluded upon thinking it over that I looked upon her as more dangerous than the woman with the sack she had heard us joke about, and that I was afraid she might carry him off more effectually.
I had let Mr. Saltus turn himself out of the house when we were in Los Angeles because a principle was involved and the life of a defenceless animal jeopardized. There was no question of that in this case, for humans speak or shriek their need; besides, Miss H—— was a very charming girl and had other acquaintances in London.
So Mr. Saltus slept in peace under his own roof and the chapter was closed.