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matter sufficiently clear. I think the whole thing deplorable. I am not a snob . ..'
    ' But you are,' said Lord Emsworth, cleverly putting his finger on the flaw in her reasoning. Lady Constance bridled.
    'Well, if it is snobbish to prefer your nephew to marry in his own class. ..'
    'Galahad would have married her mother thirty years ago if he hadn't been shipped off to South Africa.' ' Galahad was - and is - capable of anything.'
    'I can remember her mother,' said Lord Emsworth meditatively. 'Galahad took me to the Tivoli once, when she was singing there. Dolly Henderson. A little bit of a thing in pink tights, with the jolliest smile you ever saw. Made you think of spring mornings. The gallery joined in the chorus, I recollect. Bless my soul, how did it go ? Turn turn tumpty turn ... Or was it Umpty tiddly tiddly pum?'
    'Never mind how it went,' s aid Lady Constance. One reminis cencer in the family, she considered, was quite enough. 'And we are not talking of the girl's mother. The only thing I have to say about Miss Brown's mother is that I wish she had never had a daughter.'
    'Well, I like her,' said Lord Emsworth stoutly. 'A very sweet, pretty, nice-mannered little thing, and extremely sound on pigs. I was saying so to young Pilbeam only yesterday.'
    ' Pilbeam!' cried Lady Constance.
    She spoke with feeling, for the name had reminded her of another grievance. She had been wanting to get to the bottom of this Pilbeam mystery for days. About that young man's presence at the Castle there seemed to her something almost uncanny. She had no recollection of his arrival. It was as if he had materialized out of thin air. And being a conventional hostess, with a conventional hostess's dislike of the irregular, she objected to finding that visitors with horrible moustaches, certainly not invited by herself, had suddenly begun to pervade the home like an escape of gas.
    'Who is that nasty little man?' she demanded. 'He's an investigator.' 'A what?’
    'A private investigator. He investigates privately.' There was a touch of quiet pride in Lord Emsworth's voice. He was sixty years old, and this was the first time he had ever found himself in the romantic role of an employer of private investigators. 'He runs the something detective agency. The Argus. That's it. The Argus Private Inquiry Agency.'
    Lady Constance breathed emotionally.
    'Ballet-girls ... Detectives ... I wonder you don't invite a few skittle-sharps here.'
    Lord Emsworth said he did not know any skittle-sharps.
    'And is one permitted to ask what a private detective is doing as a guest at Blandings Castle ?'
    ‘I got him down to investigate that mystery of the Empress's disappearance.'
    'Well, that idiotic pig of yours has been back in her sty for days. What possible reason can there be for this man staying on?'
    'Ah, that was Galahad's idea. It was Galahad's suggestion that he should stay on till after the Agricultural Show. He thought it would be a good thing to have somebody like that handy in case Parsloe tried any more of his tricks.'
    'Clarence!'
    'And I consider,' went on Lord Emsworth firmly, 'that he was quite right. I know it was Baxter who actually stole my pig, and you will no doubt say that Baxter is notoriously potty. But Galahad feels - and I feel - that it was not primarily his pottiness that led him to steal the Empress. We both think that Parsloe was behind the whole thing. And Galahad maintains - and I agree with him - that it is only a question of time before he makes another attempt. So the more watchers we have on the place the better. Especially if they have trained minds and are used to mixing with criminals, like Pilbeam.'
    'Clarence, you're insane!'
    'No, lam not insane,' retorted Lord Emsworth warmly. 'I know Parsloe. And Galahad knows Parsloe. You should read some of the stories about him in Galahad's book - thoroughly well documented stories, he assures me, showing the sort of man he was when Galahad used to go about London with him in their