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Three Men and a Maid By p. G. WODEHOUSE < Copyright by George H. Doran Ce. CHAPTER Xlll—Continued. “Ohf said Mr. Bennett. "You do. "uTßennett Bat rt<n. Be put “' Us handkerchief, which hart cer fv earned a rest. Then he fas ta‘ a baleful stare upon his newly flered son. It was not the sort <g£% tach'the sort o?“o"whlS d ti nh sud-e at a eriralnal In the Sock convicted of a more than usually rodous murder. Billie, not being in tb , actual line of fire, only caught the tail end of it, but it was enough to create a misgiving. n "Oh, father! You aren t angry. "Angry!” ••You can’t be angry I” ••Why can’t I be angry!” demanded Mr. Bennett, with that sense of injury which conies to self-willed men when their whims are thwarted. "Why the devil shouldn’t I be angry? I am angry ! I come here and find you like like this, and you seem to expect me to throw my hat in the air and give three rousing cheers! Of course I m angry! You are engaged to be married to an excellent young man of the highest character,, one of the finest young men I have ever met. . . • “Oli, well!” said Sam, straightening his tie modestly. “Of course, if you say so . . . It’s awfully good of you ...” •But, father,” cried Billie. "I never really loved Bream. I like him very much, but I could never love hiv. I only got engaged to him because you were so anxious for it, and because ... 1 had quarreled with the man 1 really loved ... I don’t want to marry Bream.” "Naturally !” said Sam. "Naturally 1 Quite out of the question. In a few days we ll all be roaring with laughter at the very idea.” Mr. Bennett scorched him with a look compared with which his earlier effort had been a loving glance. “Wilhelmina,” he said! “go into the outer oflice.” "But, father, you don’t understand. You don’t realize that Sam has just saved my life.” “Saved your life? What do you mean?” ' There was a lunatic in here with a pistol, and Sam saved me.” It was nothing,” said Sam modestly. '‘Nothing." “Go into the outer office!” thundered Mr. Bennett, quite unmoved by this story. “Very well,” said Billie. “I shall al ways love you, Sain,” she said, pausing mutinously at the door. "i shall always love you,” said Sam. "Nobody can keep us apart.” “They’re wasting time trying,” said Sam. You’re the most wonderful man in the world.” "There never was a girl like you I” •let out!” bellowed Mr. Bennett, on "hose equanimity this love scene, "hicli I think beautiful, was jarring profoundly. ‘ v '°' v ’ sir 1” he said to Sam, as the door closed. Yes, let’s talk it over calmly,” said Sam. I will not talk It over calmly P Oh, come! You can do it if you try.’’ "iearn Mortimer is the son of Henry Mortimer.” "I know,” said Sam. “And, while It no doubt unfair to hold that ngalnst ‘ us a Point you can’t afford to ig- Henry Mortimer! You and I Henry Mortimer’s number. We ::;1" Henry Mortimer Is like! A ;;;: 1 ,"' ao spends his time thinking up oik'u '' ann °ying you. You can’t seri , \ want to have the Mortimer family ' i ,0 Y°u by marriage.” frj,* I ', Mortimer is my oldest a m!‘„ at n J akes U all the worse. Fancy •n who calls himself your friend you like that!” J he misunderstanding to which you ' been completely smoothed . r r, ‘'ations with Mr. Mortimer • cordial.” < , j!llve 11 your o ' v n way. Per- I wouldn’t trust a man like ;^ n d. as for letting ruy daughter II nis son. . . . j” decided once and for all '-■•I ■,?'l 1 , . take my adv,ce - you will .. s the thing off.” ' 4 n>t take your advice.” it." exn! i'! t , e^P ect t 0 Charge you for V 4 i ned & am, reassuringly. “I y-r. ? 9 . a fr,enf i. not as a law tn y,, . ‘U -eightpence to others, free • understand that my daugh ~to marr J’ Bream Mortimer? ■pY* y ° U Pigling about?” - a os SO silly. The idea of any . r -‘ n Bream Mortimer, I ev ; n > f’ e ' eil you he ls thoroughly Dle young man.” And there you put the whole thing in a nutshell. Your daughter is a girl of spirit. She would hate to be tied for life to an estimable young man.” "She will do as I tell her." Sam regarded him sternly. “Have you no regard for her happi ness?” “I am the best judge of what is best for her.” “If you ask me," said Sam candidly, "I think you’re a rotten judge.” “1 did not come here to be insulted I” “I like that! You have been insult ing me ever since you arrived. What right have you to say that I’m not fit to marry your daughter?" "I did not say that.” “You’ve implied it. And you’ve been looking at me as if I were a leper or something the pure food committee has condemned. Why? That’s what I ask you,” said Sam, warming up. This, he fancied, was the way Widgery would have tackled a troublesome client. “Why? Answer me that!" ) Sam rapped sharply on the desk. "Be careful, sir. Be very careful!" He knew that this was what lawyers always said. Of course, there is a dif ference in position between a miscreant whom you suspect of an attempt at per jury and the father of the girl you love, whose consent to the match you wish to obtain, but Sam was in no mood for these nice distinctions. He only knew that lawyers told people to be very careful. "What do you mean, be very care ful?” said Mr. Bennett. “I’m dashed if 1 know.” said Sam frankly. The question struck him as a mean attack. He wondered how Widg ery would have met It. Probably by smiling quietly and polishing his spec tacles. Sain had no spectacles. He en deavored, however, to smile quietly. “Don’t laugh at me 1” roared Mr. Ben nett. “I’m not laughing at you.” “You are I” ‘Tm not!” “Well, don’t, then P said Mr. Bennett. He glowered at his young companion. “I don’t know why I’m wasting my time talking to you. The position ls clear to the meanest intelligence. You cannot have any. difficulty in understanding It. I have no objection to you personally • • • “Come, this ls better 1” said Sam. “1 don’t know you well enough to have any objection to you or any opin ion of you at all. This is the first time I have ever met you in my life.” “Mark you,” said Sam. “I think I nrn one of those fellows who grow on peo ple „ . .” “As far as I am concerned, you sim ply do not exist. You may be the noblest character in London or you may be wanted by the police. 1 don’t know. And 1 don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me. You mean nothing in my life. I don’t know you.” “You must persevere,” said Sam. “You must buckle to and get to know me. Don’t give the thing up In this half hearted way. „ Everything has to nave a beginning. Stick to it, and In a week or two you will find yourself knowing me quite well.” “I don’t want to know you 1” “You say that now, but wait I” “And . thank goodness 1 have not got to!” exploded Mr. Benentt, ceasing to be calm and reasonable with u sudden ness which affected Sam much as though half a pound of gunpowder had been touched off under his chair. “For the little I have seen of you has been quite enough 1 Kindly understand that my daughter is engaged to be married to another man, and that 1 do not wish to see or hear anything of you again! I shall try to forget your very exist ence, and I shall see to it that Wilhel rnina does the same! You're an Impu dent scoundrel 1 I don’t like you 1 I don’t wish to see you again! If you were the last man In the world 1 wouldn’t allow my daughter to marry you! If that ls quite dear, I wiU wish you good-morning!” Mr. Bennett thundered out of the room, and Sam, temporarily stunned by the outburst, remained where he was, gaping. A few minutes later life began to return to his palsied limbs. It occurred to him that Mr. Bennett had forgotten to kiss him good-by, and he went into the outer office to tell him so. But the outer office was empty. Sam stood for a moment in thought, then he returned to the inner office, and, picking up a time-table, began to look out trains to the village of Win dlehurst in Hampshire, the nearest station to his aunt Adeline’s charming old-world house, Windles. CHAPTER XIV As 1 read over the last few chapters of this narrative, 1 see that I have been giving the reader a rather too jumpy time. To almost a painful de j gree I have excited his pity and terror; and, though that is what Aristorie tells one ought to do, I feel that a little res pite would not be out of order. The reader can stand having his emotions churned up to a certain point; after that lie wants to take it easy. It is with pleasure, therefore, that I turu to THE OANIELSVILLE MONITOR, DANIELSVILLE, GEORGIA. depict a quiet, peaceful scene in do mestic life. It won't last long—three minutes, perhaps, by a stop-watch— but that is not my fault. My task Is to record facts as they happened. The morning sunlight fell pleasantly on the garden of Windles, turning it into the green and amber paradise which nature had Intended it to be. A number of the local birds sang melodi ously in the undergrowth at the end of the lawn, while others, more ener getic, hopped about the grass in quest of worms. Bees, mercifully ignorant that, after they had worked them selves to the bone gathering honey, the proceeds of their labor would be col lared and consumed by Idle humans, buzzed industriously to and fro and dived head foremost Into flowers. Winged Insects danced snrubnnds In the sunshine. And In a deck-chair un der the cedar tree Billie Bennett, with a sketching block on her knee, was en gaged in drawing a picture of the ruined castle. Beside her, curled up in a ball, lay her Pekinese dog, Pinky- Boodles. Beside Piuky-Boodles slept Smith, the bulldog. In the distant stable yard, unseen but audible, a boy in shirt sleeves was washing the car and singing as much as treacherous memory would permit of a popular sentimental ballad. You may think that was all. You may suppose that nothing could be added to deepen the atmosphere of peace and content. Not so. At this moment, Mr. Bennett emerged from the French windows of the drawing room, clad in white flannels and buck skin shoes, supplying just the finish ing touch that was needed. Mr. Bennett crossed the lawn, and sat down beside his daughter. Smith, the bulldog, raising a sleepy head, breathed heavily; but Mr. Bennett did not quail. Of late, relations of distant hut solid friendship had come to exist between them. Skeptical at first, Mr. Bennett had at length allowed himself to be persuaded of Ihe mildness of the animal’s nature and the essential purity of his motives; and now it was only when they encountered each other unexpectedly round sharp corners that he- ever betrayed the slightest alarm. So now, while Smith slept on the grass, Mr. Bennett reclined in the chair. It was the nearest thing mod ern civilization had seen to the lion iying down with the lamb. “Sketching?” said Mr. Bennett. “Yes,” said Billie, for there were no secrets between this girl and her fa ther. At least, not many. She occa sionally omitted to tell him some such trifle as that she hud met Samuel Mar lowe on the previous morning in a leafy lane, and intended to meet him again this afternoon, but apart from that her mind was an open book. “It’s a great morning.” said Mr. Ben nett. “So peaceful," said Billie. “The eggs you get in the country in England,” said Air. Bennett, suddenly striking a lyrical note, “are extraordi nary. I had three for breakfast this morning which defied competition, simply defied competition. They were large and brown, and as fresh as new mown hay,!”. He mused for n while In a sort of ecstasy. “And the hams!” he went on. “The ham I had for breakfast was what I call hqra! 1 don’t know when I’ve had ham like that. I suppose it’s some thing they feed the pigs.” he conclud ed. in soft meditation. And he gave a little sigh. Life was very beautiful. Silence fell, broken only by the snor ing of Smith. Billie was thinking of Sam, and of what Sam had said to her in the lane yesterday; of his clean-cut face, and the look in his eyes —so vastly superior to any look that ever came into the eyes of Bream Mor timer. She was telling herself that her relations with Sain were an idyll; for, being young and romantic, she en joyed tills freshet of surreptitious meetings which had come to enliven the stream of her life. It was pleas ant to go warily into deep lanes where forbidden love lurked. She cast a swift side glance at her father—the uncon scious ogre in her fairy story. What would he say if he knew? But Air. Bennett did not know, and consequent ly continued to meditate peacefully on ham. They had sat like this for perhaps a minute—two happy mortals lulled by the gentle beauty of the day—when from the window of the drawing room there stepped out a white-capped maid. And one may Just as well say at once an 3 have done with it —that this is the point where the quiet, peaceful scene in domestic life terminates with a jerk, and pity and terror resume work at the old stand. The maid —her name, not that it matters, was Susan, and she was en gaged to he married, though the point Is of no importance, to the second as sistani at Green’s grocery stores In Windleliurst— approached Air. Ben nett. “Please, sir, a gentleman to see vou.” “Eh?" said Mr. Bennett, torn from a dream of large pink slices edged with bread-crumbed fat. “Eh?” “A gentleman to see you. sir. in the drawing room. He says you are expecting him. ••Of course, yes. To be sure." Mr Bennett heaved himself out of the deck-chair. Beyond the French windows ne could see au lndlstinetf form in a gray suit, nnd remembered that this was the morning on which Sir Mallaby Marlowe’s clerk—who was taking those Schultz and Bowen pa pers for him to America —had written that lie would call. Today was Fri day; no doubt the man was sailing from Southampton tomorrow. He crossed the lawn, entered the drawing room, and found Mr. Johu Pe ters with an expression on his 111-fa vored face, which looked like one of consternation, of uneasiness, even of alarm. "Morning. Mr. Peters,” said Mr. Ben nett. “Very good of you to run down. Take a seat, and I’ll Just go through the few uotes I have made about the matter.” “Mr. Bennett," exclaimed John Pe ters. “May—may I speak?” "What do you mean? Eh? What? Something to say? Wlmi is it?” Air. Peters cleared his throat awk wardly. lie was feeling embarrassed at the unpleasantness of the duty which he had to perform, but It was a duty, and he did not intend to shrink from performing It. Ever since, gazing appreciatively through the drawing room windows at tlie charming scene outside, he bad caught sight of the un forgettable form of Billie, seated In her chair with the sketching block on her knee, lie had realized that he could not go away In silence, leaving Mr. Bennett ignorant of what he was up against One almost inclines to fnney that there must have been n curse of some kind on this house of Windles. Cer tainly everybody wlio entered it seemed to leave his pence of mind be hind him. John Peters had been feel ing notably happy during his journey in the train from London, nnd the sub sequent walk from the station. The splendor of the morning had soothed his nerves, and the faint wind that blew inshore from the sen spoke to him hearteningly of adventure nnd ro mance. There was a jar of pot-pourri on the drawing-room table, nnd lie had derived considerable pleasure from sniffing at it. In short. John Peters was in the pink, without n care In the world, until lie had looked out of the window nnd seen Billie. “Mr. Bennett,” lie said, “1 don’t want to do anybody any harm, nnd, If you know all about It, and she suits you, well and good; but I think It is my duty to Inform you that your stenographer Is not quite right In the head. I don’t say she’s dangerous, but she isn’t compos. She decidedly U not compos, Mr. Bennett!” Mr. Bennett stared at his well-wish er dumbly for a moment. The thought crossed his mind that, if ever there was a case of the pot calling the kettle black, this was it. His opinion of John Peters’ sanity went down to zero. “What are you talking about? My stenographer? What stenographer?" It occurred to Mr. Peters that a man of the other’s wealth and business con nections might well have a troupe of these useful females. He particular ized. “I mean the young lady out in the garden there, to whom you were dic tating just now. The young lady with the writing-pad on her knee." “What! What!” Mr. Bennett splut tered. “Do you know who that Is?” he explained. “Oh. yes. indeed!” said John Peters “I have only met her once, when she came Into our office to see Air. Samuel, but her personality nnd appearance stamped themselves so forcibly on my mind, that I know l am not mistaken. I am sure It Is my duty to tell you ex actly what happened when I was left alone with her In the oflice. We hnd hardly exchanged a dozen words. Mr. Bennett when—" here John Peters, modest to the core, turned vividly pink, “when she told me —she told me that I was the only man she loved!” Mr. Bennett uttered a lopd cry. “Sweet spirits of nitre!" Mr. Peters could make nothing ot tills exclamation, and he was deterred from seeking light, by tlie sudden ac tion of his host, who, bounding from his sent, with a vivacity of which ono could not have believed him capable, charged to the French window and emitted a bellow. “Wilhelmina!” Billie looked up from her sketching book with a start. It seemed to her thnt there was a note of anguish, of panic In thnt voice. What her father could have found in the drawing room to be frightened at. she did not know; byt she dropped her block and hurried to his assistance. “What Is it, father?" (TO BIT CONTINUED.* Impossible. They say Americans don’t make good waiters. They simply can’t look hnmhle In the presence of a clerk playing a duke on Saturday night.— Duluth Herald. View Circus Secretly. Mohammedan. Hindustan and Ben gnl women view the circus from a sec tion that is partitioned off with cheese doth, which allows them to see with out being seen. Profanity. “Profanity shows a lack of courage, - said Uncle Eben. “A man wouldn’t dare talk de wny he does to a mule If de mule could understand ’em." LIFE’S | JT LITTLE j| JESTS WILLING SACRIFICE “Mamma,” said little Elsie, “I cE wish I had some money to give you for the poor children.” Her mother, wishing to tench her the lesson of self-sacrifice, said; "Very well, dear; if you would like to go without sugar for a week I’ll give you the money instead, and then you will have some." The little one considered solemnly for a moment and then said: "Must it be sugar, mamma?” “Why, no, darling, not necessarily. What would you like to do without?” “Soap, mamma,” was Elsie’s answer. —Boston Transcript. Wasting Money. Hi Snodgrass (wrought up)—Yep, Jim, here I goes an’ buys a. steamship ticket for my son Tom to South Amer ica, lie goes aboard, the ship goes under an’ he drowns. Jim Peters—Ain’t It terrible! Hi Snodgrass Yep, money Just thrown right out o’ the window. No Way Out for Him. Doctor —That’s a bad razor out in your head, Hast us. Why don’t you profit by tiiis lesson and keep out of bad company? Uastus —Aii would, doctah, but ah ain’t got no money to get er divorce.— Mfe. THE CRYING NEED The Speaker—Our population has decreased! The crying'need of this community is— Voice in Itehr--Alore babies, old topi Heard on the Highway. The burdens will be lighter And all the work well done, If you make the country brighter liy following the Sun. Almost Too Hard. “So your daughter's married, I hem. I expect you found It very hard to part with her." 1 “Hard! I should think so. Between you and me, my.boy, I began to think it was impossible!”—Alnwick Guard ian. It’s Come to This. “What a perfectly adorable lint you've got. on, dear?” ‘•lsn’t It sweet? Cook’s just’ given me it for a birthday present, as it’s too shabby for her to wear.” ' ' Big Time. Mr. Jackson— What you all tote sect n big watch fo’? Mr. Johnson—Cause I’se an Impor tant man an’ iny time is valuable. Her Only Hope. “Miss Oldun clings to tlie Idea that marriages are made in heaven.” “Well, It must be comforting to her. She hasn’t much chance down here.” STILL FAT Wfr| “Has your sister's horseback riding reduced her weight?” “Can’t say it lias. Site's fallen off a good deal, but is still fat.” According to History. “When Caesar crossed the Rubicon, It looks to me,” writes Dennett, “As though he klnda double-crossed That bunch, the Roman senate.” Kid Working Ahead Too Fast. Visitor—Have you started to teach the little one to talk? Father -Yes, we’ve started to teach Him to be silent. Justice. Composer—Ah, how pathetic. How those old songs do haunt me! Gert —Why shouldn’t they? You’ve dug up some old ones.