"That's rather too cruel, landlord," said Lionel from his seat. "I don't like the idea of smothering the poor beast."
"Put it this way, sir," said Glew, who was an amiable fellow; "is it better to smother it or leave it there to starve? My way 'ud take five minutes—yours a couple o' days. Well, sir?"
"I suppose you're right," said the soft-hearted Lionel, "but I don't half like——"
"Don't you worry," struck in Tony, who was beginning to get anxious. "I tell you what! It's a big chimney and I'm pretty slim. If you'll let me go up to-night after the pub's closed, Mr. Glew, I'll strip and climb. Of course we mustn't leave it there, and smothering doesn't appeal to me."
"You're a decent chap," said Lionel, moved to admiration. Tony modestly murmured "Not at all," and hoped the landlord was satisfied. But he was not. The very ideer! One o' his guests a-climbin' the chimney! No! he'd send the boy up. Hi!
Things were now looking very black in more than one sense, and the disciple of romance in the chimney had serious thoughts of a descent. But as the landlord opened his mouth to bellow for the boy, the man from up-stairs—"Mr. Beckett"—passed the door with his golf-clubs slung over his shoulder. He looked in and said, "I'm going up to the links, Mr. Glew. Dinner at seven-thirty, please," in a polished voice that carried a hint of an alien accent. Then he went on.
Lionel determined to follow. He had been to The Quiet House that morning and had learned that Miss Arkwright was away. She would be back, however, about four. The door had been answered by the dumb footman spoken of by the vicar, who had exhibited one of those dials that stand on hall tables—"Out—in at...." So Lionel had come back, meaning to kill a couple of hours at the inn. But when he saw the man "Beckett" it struck him that he might as well waste those hours on the links. He might possibly get into conversation with this man, whom he felt sure was the Turkish ambassador. Every thing pointed to it,—the newspaper paragraph—the accent—the assumed name (for he had confessed it to the vicar)—the age. Supposing this to be so, he might be worth watching. If Beatrice were right in her suspicions and conjectures, it was quite possible Mizzi would follow him to Shereling and seek an interview. Mizzi, in point of fact might have already made an assignation—she might even be waiting on the links! Supposing he found them ... well, at least he would have verified suspicions, and could chart his course by certain knowledge. Yes, he would follow on the off chance.
He did not take as long to make up his mind as we have taken to describe it. The reader, if kindly-hearted, should be glad of this; for meanwhile the unhappy Bangs has risked exceeding the proverbial allowance of "a peck of dirt" to be swallowed in a lifetime. Lionel, then, went out, leaving Tony to deal with the landlord. He sighed with relief, for at least the most important character had disappeared.
"Mr. Glew," he said winningly, "I have a little surprise for you. May I close the door for a moment?"
"Cert'n'y, sir," said the other, staring. His bovine gaze followed Tony as he walked to the fireplace, stooped down, and said gently, "Come, birdie, come!"—a song of his childhood flitting suddenly across his brain. To make his meaning perfectly clear, he added, "It's all right, Bangs. You may get down from the table!" Then he discreetly retired a few paces and waited. He had not to wait long.