Lady Wetherby's good-tempered mouth, far from good-tempered now,
curled in a devastating sneer. She was looking at him as Claire,
in the old days when they had toured England together in road
companies, had sometimes seen her look at recalcitrant landladies.
The landladies, without exception, had wilted beneath that gaze,
and Mr Pickering wilted now.
'But--but--but--' was all he could contrive to say.
'Why should we think you did it?' said Lady Wetherby, bitterly.
'You had a grudge against the poor brute for biting you. We find
you hiding here with a pistol and a story about burglars which an
infant couldn't swallow. I suppose you thought that, if you
planted the poor creature's body here, it would be up to Algie to
get rid of it, and that if he were found with it I should think
that it was he who had killed the animal.'
The look of horror which Lord Wetherby had managed to assume
became genuine at these words. The gratitude which he had been
feeling towards Mr Pickering for having removed one of the chief
trials of his existence vanished.
'Great Scot!' he cried. 'So that was the game, was it?'
Mr Pickering struggled for speech. This was a nightmare.
'But I didn't! I didn't! I didn't! I tell you I hadn't the
remotest notion the creature was there.
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