pgw.uneasymoney-第28部分

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　into　the　shrubbery。　He　was　not　fond　of　the　shrubbery；　but　it　was　a　splendid　place　to　withdraw　into。　It　swallowed　you　up。
　This　was　the　last　move　of　the　first　part　of　Mr　Pickering's　active　campaign。　He　stayed　where　he　was；　in　the　middle　of　a　bush；　and　waited　for　the　enemy　to　do　something。　What　he　expected　him　to　do　he　did　not　know。　The　subconscious　thought　that　animated　him　was　that　on　a　night　like　this　something　was　bound　to　happen　sooner　or　later。　Just　such　a　thought　on　similarly　stimulating　nights　had　animated　men　of　his　acquaintance　thirty　years　ago；　men　who　were　as　elderly　and　stolid　and　unadventurous　now　as　Mr　Pickering　had　been　then。　He　would　have　resented　the　suggestion　profoundly；　but　the　truth　of　the　matter　was　that　Dudley　Pickering；　after　a　late　start；　had　begun　to　play　Indians。
　Nothing　had　happened　for　a　long　timefor　such　a　long　time　that；　in　spite　of　the　ferment　within　him；　Mr　Pickering　almost　began　to　believe　that　nothing　would　happen。　The　moon　shone　with　unutterable　calm。　The　crickets　and　the　tree　frogs　performed　their　interminable　duet；　apparently　unconscious　that　they　were　attacking　it　in　different　keysa　fact　that；　after　a　while；　began　to　infuriate　Mr　Pickering。　Mosquitoes　added　their　reedy　tenor　to　the　concert。　A　twig　on　which　he　was　standing　snapped　with　a　report　like　a　pistol。　The　moon　went　on　shining。
　Away　in　the　distance　a　dog　began　to　howl。　An　automobile　passed　in　the　road。　For　a　few　moments　Mr　Pickering　was　able　to　occupy　himself　pleasantly　with　speculations　as　to　its　make；　and　then　he　became　aware　that　something　was　walking　down　the　back　of　his　neck　just　beyond　the　point　where　his　fingers　could　reach　it。　Disfort　enveloped　Mr　Pickering。　At　various　times　by　day　he　had　seen　long…winged　black　creatures　with　slim　waists　and　unpleasant　faces。　Could　it　be　one　of　these？　Or　a　caterpillar？　Orand　the　maddening　thing　was　that　he　did　not　dare　to　slap　at　it；　for　who　knew　what　desperate　characters　the　sound　might　not　attract？
　Well；　it　wasn't　stinging　him；　that　was　something。
　A　second　howling　dog　joined　the　first　one。　A　wave　of　sadness　was　apparently　afflicting　the　canine　population　of　the　district　to…night。
　Mr　Pickering's　vitality　began　to　ebb。　He　was　ageing；　and　imagination　slackened　its　grip。　And　then；　just　as　he　had　begun　to　contemplate　the　possibility　of　abandoning　the　whole　adventure　and　returning　home；　he　was　jerked　back　to　boyhood　again　by　the　sound　of　voices。
　He　shrank　farther　back　into　the　bushes。　A　manThe　Manwas　approaching；　acpanied　by　his　female　associate。　They　passed　so　close　to　him　that　he　could　have　stretched　out　a　hand　and　touched　them。
　The　female　associate　was　speaking；　and　her　first　words　set　all　Mr　Pickering's　suspicions　dancing　a　dance　of　triumph。　The　girl　gave　herself　away　with　her　opening　sentence。
　'You　can't　think　how　nervous　I　was　this　afternoon；'　he　heard　her　say。　She　had　a　soft　pleasant　voice；　but　soft；　pleasant　voices　may　be　the　vehicles　for　conveying　criminal　thoughts。　'I　thought　every　moment　one　of　those　newspaper　men　would　look　in　here。'
　Where　was　here？　Ah；　that　outhouse！　Mr　Pickering　had　had　his　suspicions　of　that　outhouse　already。　It　was　one　of　those　structures　that　look　at　you　furtively　as　if　something　were　hiding　in　them。
　'James！　James！　I　thought　I　heard　James　in　those　bushes。'
　The　girl　was　looking　straight　at　the　spot　occupied　by　Mr　Pickering；　and　it　had　been　the　start　caused　by　her　first　words　and　the　resultant　rustle　of　branches　that　had　directed　her　attention　to　him。　He　froze。　The　danger　passed。　She　went　on　speaking。　Mr　Pickering　pondered　on　James。　Who　was　James？　Another　of　the　gang；　of　course。　How　many　of　them　were　there？
　'Once　I　thought　it　was　all　up。　One　of　them　was　about　a　yard　from　the　window；　just　going　to　look　in。'
　Mr　Pickering　thrilled。　There　was　something　hidden　in　the　outhouse；　then！　Swag？
　'Thank　goodness；　a　bee　stung　him　at　the　psychological　moment；　andoh！'
　She　stopped；　and　The　Man　spoke：
　'What's　the　matter？'
　It　interested　Mr　Pickering　that　The　Man　retained　his　English　accent　even　when　talking　privately　with　his　associates。　For　practice；　no　doubt。
　'e　and　get　a　banana；'　said　the　girl。　And　they　went　off　together　in　the　direction　of　the　house；　leaving　Mr　Pickering　bewildered。　Why　a　banana？　Was　it　a　slang　term　of　the　underworld　for　a　pistol？　It　must　be　that。
　But　he　had　no　time　for　speculation。　Now　was　his　chance；　the　only　chance　he　would　ever　get　of　looking　into　that　outhouse　and　finding　out　its　mysterious　contents。　He　had　seen　the　girl　unlock　the　door。　A　few　steps　would　take　him　there。　All　it　needed　was　nerve。　With　a　strong　effort　Mr　Pickering　succeeded　in　obtaining　the　nerve。　He　burst　from　his　bush　and　trotted　to　the　outhouse　door；　opened　it；　and　looked　in。　And　at　that　moment　something　touched　his　leg。
　At　the　right　time　and　in　the　right　frame　of　mind　man　is　capable　of　stoic　endurances　that　excite　wonder　and　admiration。　Mr　Pickering　was　no　weakling。　He　had　once　upset　his　automobile　in　a　ditch；　and　had　waited　for　twenty　minutes　until　help　came　to　relieve　a　broken　arm；　and　he　had　done　it　without　a　murmur。　But　on　the　present　occasion　there　was　a　difference。　His　mind　was　not　adjusted　for　the　occurrence。　There　are　times　when　it　is　unseasonable　to　touch　a　man　on　the　leg。　This　was　a　moment　when　it　was　unseasonable　in　the　case　of　Mr　Pickering。　He　bounded　silently　into　the　air；　his　whole　being　rent　asunder　as　by　a　cataclysm。
　He　had　been　holding　his　revolver　in　his　hand　as　a　protection　against　nameless　terrors；　and　as　he　leaped　he　pulled　the　trigger。　Then　with　the　automatic　instinct　for　self…preservation；　he　sprang　back　into　the　bushes；　and　began　to　push　his　way　through　them　until　he　had　reached　a　safe　distance　from　the　danger　zone。
　James；　the　cat；　meanwhile；　hurt　at　the　manner　in　which　his　friendly　move　had　been　received；　had　taken　refuge　on　the　outhouse　roof。　He　mewed　plainingly；　a　puzzled　note　in　his　voice。　Mr　Pickering's　behaviour　had　been　one　of　those　things　that　no　fellow　can　understand。　The　whole　thing　seemed　inexplicable　to　James。
　
　18
　Lord　Dawlish　stood　in　the　doorway　of　the　outhouse；　holding　the　body　of　Eustace　gingerly　by　the　tail。　It　was　a　solemn　moment。　There　was　no　room　for　doubt　as　to　the　pleteness　of　the　extinction　of　Lady　Wetherby's　pet。
　Dudley　Pickering's　bullet　had　done　its　lethal　work。　Eustace's　adventurous　career　was　over。　He　was　through。
　Elizabeth's　mouth　was　trembling；　and　she　looked　very　white　in　the　moonlight。　Being　naturally　soft…hearted；　she　deplored　the　tragedy　for　its　own　sake；　and　she　was　also；　though　not　lacking　in　courage；　decidedly　upset　by　the　discovery　that　some　person　unknown　had　been　roaming　her　premises　with　a　firearm。
　'Oh；　Bill！'　she　said。　Then：　'Poor　little　chap！'　And　then：　'Who　could　have　done　it？'
　Lord　Dawlish　did　not　answer。　His　whole　mind　was　occupied　at　the　moment　with　the　contemplation　of　the　fact　that　she　had　called　him　Bill。　Then　he　realized　that　she　had　spoken　three　times　and　expected　a　reply。
　'Who　could　have　done　it？'
　Bill　pondered。　Never　a　quick　thinker；　the　question　found　him　unprepared。
　'Some　fellow；　I　expect；'　he　said　at　last　brightly。　'Got　in；　don't　you　know；　and　then　his　pistol　went　off　by　accident。'
　'But　what　was　he　doing　with　a　pistol？'
　Bill　looked　a　little　puzzled　at　this。
　'Why；　he　would　have　a　pistol；　wouldn't　he？　I　thought　everybody　had　over　here。'
　Except　for　what　he　had　been　able　to　observe　during　the　brief　period　of　his　present　visit；　Lord　Dawlish's　knowledge　of　the　United　States　had　been　derived　from　the　American　plays　which　he　had　seen　in　London；　and　in　these　chappies　were　producing　revolvers　all　the　time。　He　had　got　the　impression　that　a　revolver　was　as　much　a　part　of　the　ordinary　well…dressed　man's　equipment　in　the　United　States　as　a　collar。
　'I　think　it　was　a　burglar；'　said　Elizabeth。　'There　have　been　a　lot　of　burglaries　down　here　this　summer。'
　'Would　a　burglar　burgle　the　outhouse？　Rummy　idea；　rather；　what？　Not　much　sense　in　it。　I　think　it　must　have　been　a　tramp。　I　expect　tramps　are　always　popping　about　and　nosing　into　all　sorts　of　extraordinary　places；　you　know。'
　'He　must　have　been　standing　quite　close　to　us　while　we　were　talking；'　said　Elizabeth；　with　a　shiver。
　Bill　looked　about　him。　Everywhere　was　peace。　No　sinister　sounds　peted　with　the　croaking　of　the　tree　frogs。　No　alien　figures　infested　the　landscape。　The　only　alien　figure；　that　of　Mr　Pickering；　was　wedged　into　a　bush；　invisible　to　the　naked　eye。
　'He's　gone　now；　at　any　rate；'　he　said。　'What　are　we　going　to　do？'
　Elizabeth　gave　another　shiver　as　she　glanced　hurriedly　at　the　deceased。　After　life's　fitful　fever　Eustace　slept　well；　but　he　was　not　looking　his　best。
　'Withit？'　she　said。
　'I　say；'　advised　Bill；　'I　shouldn't　call　him　〃it；〃　don't　you　know。　It　sort　of　rubs　it　in。　Why　not　〃him〃？　I　suppose　we　had　better　bury　him。　Have　you　a　spade　anywhere　handy？'
　'There　isn't　a　spade　on　the　place。'
　Bill　looked　thoughtful。
　'It　takes　weeks　to　make　a　hole　with　anything　else；　you　know；'　he　said。　'When　I　was　a　kid　a　friend　of　mine　bet　me　I　wouldn't　dig　my　way　through　to　China　with　a　pocket　knife。　It　was　an　awful　frost。　I　tried　for　a　couple　of　days；　and　broke　the　knife　and　didn't　get　anywhere　near　China。'　He　laid　the　remains　on　the　grass　and　surveyed　t