and I could not cry out. Miss Brett--that is, Mr Brett, at least Mr
something who was not Miss Brett--had the revolver pointed at me.
The other two ladies--or er--gentlemen, were rummaging in some bag
in the background. It was all clear at last: they were criminals
dressed up as women, to kidnap me! To kidnap the Vicar of Chuntsey,
in Essex. But why? Was it to be Nonconformists?

"The brute leaning against the door called out carelessly, `'Urry
up, 'Arry. Show the old bloke what the game is, and let's get off.'

"`Curse 'is eyes,' said Miss Brett--I mean the man with the
revolver--`why should we show 'im the game?'

"`If you take my advice you bloomin' well will,' said the man at
the door, whom they called Bill. `A man wot knows wet 'e's doin' is
worth ten wot don't, even if 'e's a potty old parson.'

"`Bill's right enough,' said the coarse voice of the man who held
me (it had been Miss Mowbray's). `Bring out the picture, 'Arry.'

"The man with the revolver walked across the room to where the
other two women--I mean men--were turning over baggage, and asked
them for something which they gave him. He came back with it across
the room and held it out in front of me. And compared to the
surprise of that display, all the previous surprises of this awful
day shrank suddenly.

"It was a portrait of myself. That such a picture should be in the
hands of these scoundrels might in any case have caused a mild
surprise; but no more. It was no mild surprise that I felt. The