He looked at Terry meditatively, planning the word in season. She had come in a few moments before and was assisting him in his kindly attentions to the dog Whiskers by tickling the latter's stomach.
"Terry," he said.
But before he could proceed further the door had opened and Mike was standing on the threshold.
A gentle glow permeated Mike's system as he surveyed the charming domestic scene. His future wife, his future father-in-law and his future dog by marriage all on the spot and doing their stuff before him. What could be sweeter? It pained him to have to break up the pretty picture, but he had come to impart news, and it must be imparted.
"Good evening, good evening, Lord Shortlands," he said. "Though I'm not sure I like that 'Lord Shortlands.' If you're going to be my father-in-law, I really ought to begin calling you something not quite so formal. 'Pop' or 'Dad' or something. In this connection, I find Desborough Topping a disappointing guide. I had hoped to pick up some hints from him, but he doesn't seem to call you anything, except occasionally 'Er.' I don't like 'Er.'"
"Adela wanted Desborough to call Shorty 'Pater,' " said Terry.
"I don't like 'Pater,' either."
"Nor did Desborough. It was too much for him. So now he just coughs."
"Coughing should be well within my scope."
Lord Shortlands had a better idea.
"Call me 'Shorty,' as Terry does."
"You solve the whole difficulty," said Mike gratefully. "I doubt if coughing would have been really satisfactory. In constant association with a roupy son-in-law, a father-in-law's love falters and dies. Too tedious, always having to be passing the lozenges. Well, Shorty, you are doubtless wondering what brings me here, intruding on your privacy."
"My dear fellow!"
"Intruding, I repeat. No need to tell me I am butting in. But the fact is, I bring news. And not too good news, I'm afraid. Hang on to your chair."
In spite of the fact that his mind, such as it was, was a good deal easier than it had been, it took very little to alarm Lord Shortlands nowadays. At these ominous words he quivered like a blancmange and, as Mike had advised, clutched the arms of his chair in a fevered grip.
"Has Adela found out?" he gasped.
"No, no, no. Not quite so bad as that. It has to do with Stanwood Cobbold. I regret to have to inform you that dear old Stanwood is in our midst."
As far as a man can reel who is seated in an armchair, Lord Shortlands reeled.
"You don't mean that?"
"I do. Stanwood is here. Himself. Not a picture."
Terry squeaked.
"Here in the house?"
"Not actually in the house, no. He is at present infesting the local inn. He sent me a note from there this afternoon, asking me to go and confer with him. But he speaks of paying us a visit."
The dog Whiskers indicated with a gesture that there was still an area of his person which had not been attended to, but Lord Shortlands was in no mood now for massaging dogs.
"My God! He'll meet Adela!"
Mike said that that was precisely the thought which he, too, found disturbing.
"And if he does, and she asks him who he is, you can bet that his instant reply will be 'Stanwood Cobbold, ma'am.' He would never let slip such a gorgeous opportunity of spilling the beans. So I did my best to make him see how essential it was that he should remain at the inn and not move a step in this direction. I assured him that the finest brains at the castle would be strained to their utmost capacity to find a solution for his problem. You see, what has happened is that his father has cabled telling him to send along a number of photographs of the interior of the house with himself prominently displayed in the foreground."
"Good God!"
"The cable apparently arrived the day we left London, and Stanwood has been pondering ever since on what was to be done about it. Last night he got the bright idea that if he came down here, I would be able to sneak him into the place in the early morning and act as his photographer. He has brought a camera."
Lord Shortlands writhed like a wounded snake, and Terry squeaked again.
"The early morning?" moaned Lord Shortlands. "Fatal!"
"The very worst time," agreed Terry. "The place will be seething with housemaids—"
"Who'll take him for a burglar—"
"And scream—"
"Thus bringing Lady Adela to the spot with her foot in her hand and putting us right in the soup," said Mike. "That was the very picture that rose before my eyes when he outlined the scheme. But cheer up. There's nothing to be worried about."
It was a well-intentioned remark, but Terry appeared to take exception to it. Her squeak this time was one of justifiable indignation, and provoked a thoughtful comment from Mike.
"Tell me," he said. "How do you manage to produce that extraordinary sound? It's like a basketful of puppies. I wouldn't have thought the human voice could have done it."
Terry was not to be lured into a discussion on voice production.
"What do you mean by scaring us stiff like that, and then saying there's nothing to be worried about?"
"There isn't. Have I ever let you down?"
"You've never had the chance."
"No, that's true. But I should have thought you would have realized by this time that there is no am-parce so sticky that the Cardinal brain cannot make it play ball. I have the situation well in hand."
"You haven't thought of something?"
"Of course I've thought of something."
"Then I think you might have told us before, instead of giving us heart failure. Shorty has high blood pressure."
"Very high," said Lord Shortlands. "Runs in the family."
Mike saw their point.
"Yes. I suppose you're right. I was to blame. I don't know if you've noticed that I have a rather unpleasant habit of painting a setup in the darkest colours in order to make the joy bells, when they ring, sound louder. It has got me a good deal disliked."
"I don't wonder."
"It's the artist in me. I have to play for Suspense. But you are waiting for the low-down. Here it comes. Is it not a fact that on Saturday afternoons throughout the spring and summer months this historic joint is thrown open to the general public on payment of an entrance fee of a bob a nob?"
"Why, of course!"
"Don't say 'of course' in that light way. You wouldn't have thought of it in a million years."
"Stanwood can come with the crowd—"
"Complete with camera."
"He can get all the photographs he wants."
"Without incurring the least suspicion."
"But how about Spink? He shows them round."
"Disregard Spink. He can't do a thing. We have the Indian, sign on him. Spink is as the dust beneath our chariot wheels."
Terry drew a deep breath.
"You know, you're rather wonderful."
"Why 'rather'?"
"Have you told Stanwood?"
"Not yet. The brain wave came after I had left him. I propose to look in on him tomorrow morning and set his mind at rest. He seemed a little feverish when we parted. That's the trouble with Stanwood. He worries. He lets things prey on his mind. And now ought we not to be making our way to the drawing room? I should imagine that your sister Adela is a woman who throws her weight about a good deal if people are late for dinner."
Lord Shortlands started.
"Has the gong gone?"
"Not yet. But it's past eight."
"Come on, come on, come on!" cried Lord Shortlands, stirred to his depths, and was out of the room in two impressive leaps.
Mike and Terry followed more slowly.
"Did you know," said Mike, "that a flea one twelfth of an inch long, weighing one eighty thousandth of an ounce, can broad-jump thirteen inches?"