Pillar pondered, and when he gave the number of pairs—“approximately, miss”—Diana said six of them would do.
And at half-past nine that night Diana told Uncle Marcus the things were all ready, laid out, in the spare room. She put out her hand inviting him to come, and he followed her upstairs and came into the room and saw spread upon the tables, bed, and chairs, things he must least have expected to see.
“Boots?” he asked, “these boots?” He took one up; looked at it, and put it down again. From that to another pair—from the boots he went to tweed coats, knickerbockers, trousers. “Was this as one would meet old friends?” thought Diana—“without one smile?”
From the blue shirt to the pink striped one, went Marcus; from the mauve silk one to the black-and-white striped one. From shirts to pyjamas; he had never thought he had so many, or such good ones. Back to the boots. He was perfectly serious and Diana wondered of what he was thinking? “You look very serious,” she said.
“It is very serious,” he answered. “You got a lot for your money, that’s all I can say—the rest of the matter I must put into the hands of the police.”
“Police?” asked Diana.
“My dear child, it’s clearly a case of stealing. Some one has sold my clothes, and although the money may be given to the poor it won’t do.” And he went—bound, Diana was sure, for the Police Station.
She was so distressed that it was more than the respectfully tender heart of Pillar could stand, and he told her, begging her pardon, that Mr. Maitland had been “in the know,” as it were. “You told him?” she asked, surprised and indignant.
“Well, miss, I couldn’t have done it without his leave.”
But the joke was spoilt! Not entirely, said Pillar, there was no reason he should know she knew. There was generally the other side to a joke.