Merrit," said Eustace, who was busy writing. "That
will do; I'll keep an eye on the bird."

There was silence in the room, unbroken but for the continuous whisper
of his pen.

"Scratch poor Peter," said the bird. "Scratch poor old Peter!"

"Be quiet, you beastly bird!"

"Poor old Peter! Scratch poor Peter, do."

"I'm more likely to wring your neck if I get hold of you." He looked up
at the picture rail, and there was the hand holding on to a hook with
three fingers, and slowly scratching the head of the parrot with the
fourth. Eustace ran to the bell and pressed it hard; then across to the
window, which he closed with a bang. Frightened by the noise the parrot
shook its wings preparatory to flight, and as it did so the fingers of
the hand got hold of it by the throat. There was a shrill scream from
Peter as he fluttered across the room, wheeling round in circles that
ever descended, borne down under the weight that clung to him. The bird
dropped at last quite suddenly, and Eustace saw fingers and feathers
rolled into an inextricable mass on the floor. The struggle abruptly
ceased as finger and thumb squeezed the neck; the bird's eyes rolled up
to show the whites, and there was a faint, half-choked gurgle. But
before the fingers had time to loose their hold, Eustace had them in his
own.

"Send Mr. Saunders here at once," he said to the maid who came in
answer to the bell. "Tell him I want him immediately."

Then he went with the hand to the fire. There was a ragged gash across
the back where the bird's beak had torn it, but no blood oozed from the
wound. He noticed with disgust that the nails had grown long and
discoloured.

"I'll burn the beastly thing," he said. But he could not burn it. He
tried to throw it into the flames, but his own hands, as if restrained
by some old primitive feeling, would not let him. And so Saunders found
him, pale and irresolute, with the hand still clasped tightly in his
fingers.

"I've got it at last," he said in a tone of triumph.

"Good; let's have a look at it."

"Not when it's loose. Get me some nails and a hammer and a board of some
sort."

"Can you hold it all right?"

"Yes, the thing's quite limp; tired out with throttling poor old Peter,
I should say."

"And now," said Saunders when he returned with the things, "what are we
going to do?"

"Drive a nail through it first, so that it can't get away; then we can
take our time over examining it."

"Do it yourself,