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, not exactly," said Mrs. Peter, anxious to whitewash her husband a
little greyer than she was painting him. "He would never touch anything
he found lying about, but he can't resist making a raid on things that
are locked up. The doctors have a special name for it. He must have
pounced on your portmanteau the moment you went to your bath, and taken
the first thing he came across. Of course, he had no motive for taking a
cream jug; we've already got _seven_, as you know--not, of course, that
we don't value the kind of gift you and your mother--hush here's Peter
coming.
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