My Man Jeeves

unpleasant. I looked at old Bill. Old Bill looked at me. We shut the door quick, and after that we didn't know what to do. I saw Bill look at the sideboard, and I knew what he was looking for. But we had taken the siphon upstairs, and his ideas of first–aid stopped short at squirting soda–water. We just waited, and presently old Yeardsley switched off, sat up, and began talking with a rush.
    "Clarence, my boy, I was tempted. It was that burglary at Dryden Park. It tempted me. It made it all so simple. I knew you would put it down to the same gang, Clarence, my boy. I——"
    It seemed to dawn upon him at this point that Clarence was not among those present.
    "Clarence?" he said hesitatingly.
    "He's in bed," I said.
    "In bed! Then he doesn't know? Even now—Young men, I throw myself on your mercy. Don't be hard on me. Listen." He grabbed at Bill, who sidestepped. "I can explain everything—everything."
    He gave a gulp.
    "You are not artists, you two young men, but I will try to make you understand, make you realise what this picture means to me. I was two years painting it. It is my child. I watched it grow. I loved it. It was part of my life. Nothing would have induced me to sell it. And then Clarence married, and in a mad moment I gave my treasure to him. You cannot understand, you two young men, what agonies I suffered. The thing was done. It was irrevocable. I saw how Clarence valued the picture. I knew that I could never bring myself to ask him for it back. And yet I was lost without it. What could I do? Till this evening I could see no hope. Then came this story of the theft of the Romney from a house quite close to this, and I saw my way. Clarence would never suspect. He would put the robbery down to the same band of criminals who stole the Romney. Once the idea had come, I could not drive it out. I fought against it, but to no avail. At last I yielded, and crept down here to carry out my plan. You found me." He grabbed again, at me this time, and got me by the arm. He had a grip like a lobster. "Young man," he said, "you would not betray me? You would not tell Clarence?"
    I was feeling most frightfully sorry for the poor old chap by this time, don't you know, but I thought it would be kindest to give it him straight instead of breaking it by degrees.
    "I won't say a word to Clarence, Mr. Yeardsley," I said. "I quite understand your feelings. The Artistic Temperament, and all that sort of thing. I mean—what?
I
know. But I'm afraid—Well, look!"
    I went to the door and switched on the electric light, and there, staring him in the face, were the two empty frames. He stood goggling at them in silence. Then he gave a sort of wheezy grunt.
    "The gang! The burglars! They
have
been here, and they have taken Clarence's picture!" He paused. "It might have been mine! My Venus!" he whispered It was getting most fearfully painful, you know, but he had to know the truth.
    "I'm awfully sorry, you know," I said. "But it
was
."
    He started, poor old chap.
    "Eh? What do you mean?"
    "They
did
take your Venus."
    "But I have it here."
    I shook my head.
    "That's Clarence's 'Jocund Spring,'" I said.
    He jumped at it and straightened it out.
    "What! What are you talking about? Do you think I don't know my own picture—my child—my Venus. See! My own signature in the corner. Can you read, boy? Look: 'Matthew Yeardsley.' This is
my
picture!"
    And—well, by Jove, it
was
, don't you know!
    * * * * *
    Well, we got him off to bed, him and his infernal Venus, and we settled down to take a steady look at the position of affairs. Bill said it was my fault for getting hold of the wrong picture, and I said it was Bill's fault for fetching me such a crack on the jaw that I couldn't be expected to see what I was getting hold of, and then there was a pretty massive silence for a bit.
    "Reggie," said Bill at last, "how exactly do you feel about facing Clarence and Elizabeth at breakfast?"
    "Old scout," I said. "I was thinking much the same myself."
    "Reggie," said Bill, "I happen to know there's a milk–train leaving Midford at three–fifteen. It isn't what you'd call a flier. It gets to London at about half–past nine. Well—er—in the circumstances, how about it?"

THE AUNT AND THE SLUGGARD
    Now that it's all over, I may as well admit that there was a time during the rather funny affair of Rockmetteller Todd when I thought that Jeeves was going to let me down. The man had the appearance of being baffled.
    Jeeves is my man, you