"
"My mother mustn't hear a word about it," said Clovis earnestly; "it
would upset her dreadfully. She relies on Sturridge for everything."
"But he might kill me at any moment," protested Jane.
"Not at any moment; he's busy with the silver all the afternoon."
"You'll have to keep a sharp look-out all the time and be on your guard
to frustrate any murderous attack," said Jane, adding in a tone of weak
obstinacy: "It's a dreadful situation to be in, with a mad butler
dangling over you like the sword of What's-his-name, but I'm certainly
not going to cut my visit short."
Clovis swore horribly under his breath; the miracle was an obvious
misfire.
It was in the hall the next morning after a late breakfast that Clovis
had his final inspiration as he stood engaged in coaxing rust spots from
an old putter.
"Where is Miss Martlet?" he asked the butler, who was at that moment
crossing the hall.
"Writing letters in the morning-room, sir," said Sturridge, announcing a
fact of which his questioner was already aware.
"She wants to copy the inscription on that old basket-hilted sabre," said
Clovis, pointing to a venerable weapon hanging on the wall. "I wish
you'd take it to her; my hands are all over oil. Take it without the
sheath, it will be less trouble."
The butler drew the blade, still keen and bright in its well-cared for
old age, and carried it into the morning-room. There was a door near the
writing-table leading to a back stairway; Jane vanished through it with
such lightning rapidity that the butler doubted whether she had seen him
come in.
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