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know you will, Beach. It isn’t in you to do otherwise. And that,’ said Ronnie, beaming on him lovingly, ‘is why I feel so sure that, when I have stolen my uncle’s pig, you will be there helping to feed it till I give it back.’
    The butler’s was not a face that registered nimbly. It took some time for a look of utter astonishment to cover its full acreage. Such a look had spread to perhaps two-thirds of its surface when Ronnie went on.
    ‘You see, Beach, strictly between ourselves, I have made up my mind to sneak the Empress away and keep her hidden in that gamekeeper’s cottage in the West Wood and then, when Uncle Clarence is sending out SOS’s and offering large rewards, I shall find it there and return it, thus winning his undying gratitude and putting him in the right frame of mind to yield up a bit of my money that I want to dig out of him. You get the idea?’
    The butler blinked. He was plainly endeavouring to conquer a suspicion that his mind was darkening. Ronnie nodded kindly at him as he fought for speech.

    ‘It’s the scheme of a lifetime, you were going to say? You’re quite right. It is. But it’s one of those schemes that call for a sympathetic fellow-worker. You see, pigs like the Empress, Beach, require large quantities of food at frequent intervals. I can’t possibly handle the entire commissariat department myself. That’s where you’re going to help me, like the splendid fellow you are and always have been.’
    The butler had now begun to gargle slightly. He cast a look of agonized entreaty at the bullfinch, but the bird had no comfort to offer. It continued to chirp reflectively to itself, like a man trying to remember a tune in his bath.
    ‘An enormous quantity of food they need,’ proceeded Ronnie. You’d be surprised. Here it is in this book I took from my uncle’s desk. At least six pounds of meal a day, not to mention milk or buttermilk and bran made sloppy with swill.’
    Speech at last returned to the butler. It took the form at first of a faint sound like the cry of a frightened infant. Then words came.
    ‘But, Mr Ronald . . .!’
    Ronnie stared at him incredulously. He seemed to be wrestling with an unbelievable suspicion.
    ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of throwing me down, Beach? You? My friend since I was so high?’ He laughed. He could see now how ridiculous the idea was. ‘Of course you aren’t! You couldn’t. Apart from wanting to do me a good turn, you’ve gathered by this time with that quick intelligence of yours, that there’s money in the thing. Ten quid down, Beach, the moment you give the nod. And nobody knows better than yourself that ten quid, invested on Baby Bones for the Medbury Selling Plate at the current odds, means considerably more than a hundred in your sock on settling-day.’
    ‘But, sir . . . It’s impossible . . . I couldn’t dream . . . If ever it was found out . . . Really, I don’t think you ought to ask me, Mr Ronald . . .’
    ‘Beach!’
    Yes, but, really, sir . . .’
    Ronnie fixed him with a compelling eye.
    ‘Think well, Beach. Who gave you Creole Queen for the Lincolnshire?’
    ‘But, Mr Ronald . . .’
    ‘Who gave you Mazzawattee for the Jubilee Stakes, Beach? What a beauty!’
    A tense silence fell upon the pantry. Even the bullfinch was hushed.
    ‘And it may interest you to know,’ said Ronnie, ‘that just before I left London I heard of something really hot for the Goodwood Cup.’
    A low gasp escaped Beach. All butlers are sportsmen, and Beach had been a butler for eighteen years. Mere gratitude for past favours might not have been enough in itself to turn the scale, but this was different. On the subject of form for the Goodwood Cup he had been quite unable to reach a satisfying decision. It had baffled him. For days he had been groping in the darkness.
    ‘Jujube, sir?’he whispered.
    ‘Not Jujube.’
    ‘Ginger George?’

    ‘Not Ginger George. It’s no use your trying to guess, for you’ll never