ir
destruction, and so I went out with a gun. I shot two of the worst
offenders. The gardener discovered half digested fruit in the dead
bodies, so I am sure that I got the right birds and did not unjustly
execute the innocent. Then I met the Canon. He displayed no interest
whatever in the destruction of the wood pigeons, although his garden
must have suffered quite as much as ours. I remarked that it was nearly
luncheon time and asked him to return with me and share the meal. He was
distraught and nervous, but he managed to quote Horace by way of reply:

"Destrictus ensis cui super impia
Cervice pendet, non Siculae dapes. . . ."

The Canon's fondness for Horace accounts, I suppose, for the name he
gave his daughter. His habit of quoting is troublesome to me; because
I cannot always translate what he says. But he has a feeling for my
infirmity and a tactful way of saving my self-respect.

"If you had a heavy, two-handed sword hanging over your head by a
hair," he explained, "you would be thinking about something else besides
luncheon."

"What has the Archdeacon been doing?" I asked.

The Archdeacon is a man with a thirst for information about church
affairs, and he collects what he wants by means of questions printed
on sheets of paper which he expects other people to answer. Canon
Beresford, who never has statistics at hand, and consequently has
to invent his answers to the questions, suffers a good deal from the
Archdeacon.

"It's not the Archdeacon this time," he said. "I wish it was. The fact
is I am in trouble again about Lalage. I am on my way up to consult your
mother."

"Has Miss Battersby been complaining?"

"She's leaving," said the Canon, at once. "Leaving, so to speak,
vigorously."

"I was afraid it would come to that. She wasn't the sort of woman who'd
readily take to swearing."

"I very nearly did," said the Canon. "She cried. It's curious, but she
really seems fond of Lalage."

"Did she by any chance force her way into the pigsty and find the
_Anti-Cat?_"

Canon Beresford looked at me and a smile hovered about his mouth. "So
you've seen that production?" he said. "I call it rather good."

"But you can hardly blame Miss Battersby for leaving, can you?"

"She didn't see it," said the Canon, "thank goodness."

"Then why on earth is she leaving? What else can she have to complain
of?"

"There was trouble. The sort of trouble nobody could possibly foresee or
guard against. You