I
pitched on this cream jug."

Both the Pigeoncotes had turned deadly pale. The mention of Dresden had
thrown a sudden light on the situation. It was Wilfrid the Attache, a
very superior young man, who rarely came within their social horizon,
whom they had been entertaining unawares in the supposed character of
Wilfrid the Snatcher. Lady Ernestine Pigeoncote, his mother, moved in
circles which were entirely beyond their compass or ambitions, and the
son would probably one day be an Ambassador. And they had rifled and
despoiled his portmanteau! Husband and wife looked blankly and
desperately at one another. It was Mrs. Peter who arrived first at an
inspiration.

"How dreadful to think there are thieves in the house! We keep the
drawing-room locked up at night, of course, but anything might be carried
off while we are at breakfast."

She rose and went out hurriedly, as though to assure herself that the
drawing-room was not being stripped of its silverware, and returned a
moment later, bearing a cream jug in her hands.

"There are eight cream jugs now, instead of seven," she cried; "this one
wasn't there before. What a curious trick of memory, Mr. Wilfrid! You
must have slipped downstairs with it last night and put it there before
we locked up, and forgotten all about having done it in the morning."

"One's mind often plays one little tricks like that," said Mr. Peter,
with desperate heartiness. "Only the other day I went into the town to
pay a bill, and went in again next day, having clean forgotten that I'd--"

"It is certainly the jug I bought for you," said Wilfrid, looking closely
at it; "it was in my portmanteau when I got my bath-robe out this
morning, before going to my bath, and it was not there when I unlocked
the portmanteau on my return. Some one had taken it while I was away
from the room."

The Pigeoncotes had turned paler than ever. Mrs. Peter had a final
inspiration.

"Get me my smelling-salts, dear," she said to her husband; "I think
they're in the dressing-room."

Peter dashed out of the room with glad relief; he had lived so long
during the last few minutes that a golden wedding seemed within
measurable distance.

Mrs. Peter turned to her guest with confidential coyness.

"A diplomat like you will know how to treat this as if it hadn't
happened. Peter's little weakness; it runs in the family."

"Good Lord! Do you mean to say he's a kleptomaniac, like Cousin
Snatcher?"

"Oh