"It's no good," she said, tartly. "We can't go about the grounds in a
cab, and I'm not going to slop about in the wet to please anybody. We
must go another time. It's hard luck, but there's worse things in life."

Mr. Teak, wondering as to the operations of Mr. Chase, agreed dumbly. He
stopped the car at the corner of their road, and, holding his head down
against the rain, sprinted towards home. Mrs. Teak, anxious for her hat,
passed him.

"What on earth's the matter?" she inquired, fumbling in her pocket for
the key as her husband executed a clumsy but noisy breakdown on the front
step.

"Chill," replied Mr. Teak. "I've got wet."

He resumed his lumberings and, the door being opened, gave vent to his
relief at being home again in the dry, in a voice that made the windows
rattle. Then with anxious eyes he watched his wife pass upstairs.

"Wonder what excuse old Alf'll make for being in?" he thought.

He stood with one foot on the bottom stair, listening acutely. He heard
a door open above, and then a wild, ear-splitting shriek rang through the
house. Instinctively he dashed upstairs and, following his wife into
their bedroom, stood by her side gaping stupidly at a pair of legs
standing on the hearthstone. As he watched they came backwards into the
room, the upper part of a body materialized from the chimney, and turning
round revealed the soot-stained face of Mr. Alfred Chase. Another wild
shriek from Mrs. Teak greeted its appearance.