A Damsel in Distress

"Stop talking!" he bellowed. "Stop talking like an idiot! I'm going

to stay here till that girl comes out, if have to wait all day!"

The curate regarded Percy thoughtfully. Percy was no Hercules: but

then, neither was the curate. And in any case, though no Hercules,

Percy was undeniably an ugly-looking brute. Strategy, rather than

force, seemed to the curate to be indicated. He paused a while, as

one who weighs pros and cons, then spoke briskly, with the air of

the man who has decided to yield a point with a good grace.

"Dear, dear!" he said. "That won't do! You say you are this young

lady's brother?"

"Yes, I do!"

"Then perhaps you had better come with me into the house and we

will speak to her."

"All right."

"Follow me."

Percy followed him. Down the trim gravel walk they passed, and up

the neat stone steps. Maud, peeping through the curtains, thought

herself the victim of a monstrous betrayal or equally monstrous

blunder. But she did not know the Rev. Cyril Ferguson. No general,

adroitly leading the enemy on by strategic retreat, ever had a

situation more thoroughly in hand. Passing with his companion

through the open door, he crossed the hall to another door,

discreetly closed.

"Wait in here," he said. Lord Belpher moved unsuspectingly forward.

A hand pressed sharply against the small of his back. Behind him a

door slammed and a key clicked. He was trapped. Groping in

Egyptian darkness, his hands met a coat, then a hat, then an

umbrella. Then he stumbled over a golf-club and fell against a

wall. It was too dark to see anything, but his sense of touch told

him all he needed to know. He had been added to the vicar's

collection of odds and ends in the closet reserved for that

purpose.

He groped his way to the door and kicked it. He did not repeat the

performance. His feet were in no shape for kicking things.

Percy's gallant soul abandoned the struggle. With a feeble oath, he

sat down on a box containing croquet implements, and gave himself

up to thought.

"You'll be quite safe now," the curate was saying in the adjoining

room, not without a touch of complacent self-approval such as

becomes the victor in a battle of wits. "I have locked him in the

cupboard. He will be quite happy there." An incorrect statement

this. "You may now continue your walk in perfect safety."

"Thank you ever so much," said Maud. "But I do hope he won't be

violent when you let him out."

"I shall not let him out," replied the curate, who, though brave,

was not rash. "I shall depute the task to a worthy fellow named

Willis, in whom I shall have every confidence. He--he is, in fact,

our local blacksmith!"