Ashe was astounded.  That it could really be his peppery employer who spoke was almost unbelievable.  Ashe’s was a friendly nature and he could never be long associated with anyone without trying to establish pleasant relations; but he had resigned himself in the present case to perpetual warfare.

He was touched; and if he had ever contemplated abandoning his venture, this, he felt, would have spurred him on to see it through.  This sudden revelation of the human in Mr. Peters was like a trumpet call.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” he said.  “It’s great of you to suggest such a thing; but I know just how you feel about the thing, and I’m going to get it for you if I have to wring Baxter’s neck.  Probably Baxter will have given up waiting as a bad job by now if he has been watching all this while.  We’ve given him ten nights to cool off.  I expect he is in bed, dreaming pleasant dreams.  It’s nearly two o’clock.  I’ll wait another ten minutes and then go down.”  He picked up the cookbook.  “Lie back and make yourself comfortable, and I’ll read you to sleep first.”

“You’re a good boy,” said Mr. Peters drowsily.

“Are you ready?  ‘Pork Tenderloin Larded.  Half pound fat pork—­’” A faint smile curved Mr. Peters’ lips.  His eyes were closed and he breathed softly.  Ashe went on in a low voice:  “’four large pork tenderloins, one cupful cracker crumbs, one cupful boiling water, two tablespoonfuls butter, one teaspoonful salt, half teaspoonful pepper, one teaspoonful poultry seasoning.’”

A little sigh came from the bed.

“’Way of Preparing:  Wipe the tenderloins with a damp cloth.  With a sharp knife make a deep pocket lengthwise in each tenderloin.  Cut your pork into long thin strips and, with a needle, lard each tenderloin.  Melt the butter in the water, add the seasoning and the cracker crumbs, combining all thoroughly.  Now fill each pocket in the tenderloin with this stuffing.  Place the tenderloins—­’”

A snore sounded from the pillows, punctuating the recital like a mark of exclamation.  Ashe laid down the book and peered into the darkness beyond the rays of the bed lamp.  His employer slept.

Ashe switched off the light and crept to the door.  Out in the passage he stopped and listened.  All was still.  He stole downstairs.

* * *

George Emerson sat in his bedroom in the bachelors’ wing of the castle smoking a cigarette.  A light of resolution was in his eyes.  He glanced at the table beside his bed and at what was on that table, and the light of resolution flamed into a glare of fanatic determination.  So might a medieval knight have looked on the eve of setting forth to rescue a maiden from a dragon.

His cigarette burned down.  He looked at his watch, put it back, and lit another cigarette.  His aspect was the aspect of one waiting for the appointed hour.  Smoking his second cigarette, he resumed his meditations.  They had to do with Aline Peters.