down and raid the larder after the household have gone to bed. I am told
there's a pretty good steak-and-kidney pie there which will repay
inspection. Have faith, Aunt Dahlia," I urged. "Pretty soon Uncle Tom
will be along, full of sympathy and anxious inquiries."

"Will he? Do you know where he is now?"

"I haven't seen him."

"He is in the study with his face buried in his hands, muttering about
civilization and melting pots."

"Eh? Why?"

"Because it has just been my painful duty to inform him that Anatole has
given notice."

I own that I reeled.

"What?"

"Given notice. As the result of that drivelling scheme of yours. What did
you expect a sensitive, temperamental French cook to do, if you went
about urging everybody to refuse all food? I hear that when the first two
courses came back to the kitchen practically untouched, his feelings were
so hurt that he cried like a child. And when the rest of the dinner
followed, he came to the conclusion that the whole thing was a studied
and calculated insult, and decided to hand in his portfolio."

"Golly!"

"You may well say 'Golly!' Anatole, God's gift to the gastric juices,
gone like the dew off the petal of a rose, all through your idiocy.
Perhaps you understand now why I want you to go and jump in that pond. I
might have known that some hideous disaster would strike this house like
a thunderbolt if once you wriggled your way into it and started trying to
be clever."

Harsh words, of course, as from aunt to nephew, but I bore her no
resentment. No doubt, if you looked at it from a certain angle, Bertram
might be considered to have made something of a floater.

"I am sorry."

"What's the good of being sorry?"

"I acted for what I deemed the best."

"Another time try acting for the worst. Then we may possibly escape with
a mere flesh wound."

"Uncle Tom's not feeling too bucked about it all, you say?"

"He's groaning like a lost soul. And any chance I ever had of getting
that money out of him has gone."

I stroked the chin thoughtfully. There was, I had to admit, reason in
what she said. None knew better than I how terrible a blow the passing of
Anatole would be to Uncle Tom.

I have stated earlier in this chronicle that this curious object of the
seashore with whom Aunt Dahlia has linked her lot is a bloke who
habitually looks like a pterodactyl that has suffered, and the reason he
does so is that all those years he spent in making millions in t