"The Boy-scouts mistook my signal, and have killed the postman.
I've had very little practice in this sort of thing, you see.
Another time I shall do better."

The housemaid, who was engaged to be married to the evening
postman, gave way to clamorous grief.

"Remember that your mistress has a headache," said J. P. Huddle.
(Miss Huddle's headache was worse.)

Clovis hastened downstairs, and after a short visit to the library
returned with another message:

"The Bishop is sorry to hear that Miss Huddle has a headache. He
is issuing orders that as far as possible no firearms shall be
used near the house; any killing that is necessary on the premises
will be done with cold steel. The Bishop does not see why a man
should not be a gentleman as well as a Christian."

That was the last they saw of Clovis; it was nearly seven o'clock,
and his elderly relative liked him to dress for dinner. But,
though he had left them for ever, the lurking suggestion of his
presence haunted the lower regions of the house during the long
hours of the wakeful night, and every creak of the stairway, every
rustle of wind through the shrubbery, was fraught with horrible
meaning. At about seven next morning the gardener's boy and the
early postman finally convinced the watchers that the Twentieth
Century was still unblotted.

"I don't suppose," mused Clovis, as an early train bore him