The Disentanglers. Andrew Lang

      ‘What was that?’

      ‘He did it himself.’

      ‘Did what?’

      ‘Killed the bishop. He is not a very plausible judge in English: in French he would be all right, a juge d’instruction, the man who cross-examines the prisoners in private, you know.’

      ‘Judges don’t do that in England,’ said Logan.

      ‘No, but this case is an exception. The judge was such a very old friend, a college friend, of the murdered bishop. So he takes advantage of his official position, and steals into the cell of the accused. My public does not know any better, and, of course, I have no reviewers. I never come out in a book.’

      ‘And why did the judge assassinate the prelate?’

      ‘The prelate knew too much about the judge, who sat in the Court of Probate and Divorce.’

      ‘Satan reproving sin?’ asked Logan.

      ‘Yes, exactly; and the bishop being interested in the case—’

      ‘No scandal about Mrs. Proudie?’

      ‘No, not that exactly, still, you see the motive?’

      ‘I do,’ said Logan. ‘And the conclusion?’

      ‘The bishop was not really dead at all. It takes some time to explain. The corpus delicti—you see I know my subject—was somebody else. And the bishop was alive, and secretly watching the judge, disguised as Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Oh, I know it is too much in Dickens’s manner. But my public has not read Dickens.’

      ‘You interest me keenly’ said Logan.

      ‘I am glad to hear it. And the penny public take freely. Our circulation goes up. I asked for a rise of three pence on the thousand words.’

      ‘Now this is what I call literary conversation,’ said Logan. ‘It is like reading The British Weekly Bookman. Did you get the threepence? if the inquiry is not indelicate.’

      ‘I got twopence. But, you see, there are so many of us.’

      ‘Tell me more. Are you serialising anything else?’

      ‘Serialising is the right word. I see you know a great deal about literature. Yes, I am serialising a featured tale.’

      ‘A featured tale?’

      ‘You don’t know what that is? You do not know everything yet! It is called Myself.’

      ‘Why Myself?’

      ‘Oh, because the narrator did it—the murder. A stranger is found in a wood, hung to a tree. Nobody knows who he is. But he and the narrator had met in Paraguay. He, the murdered man, came home, visited the narrator, and fell in love with the beautiful being to whom the narrator was engaged. So the narrator lassoed him in a wood.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Oh, the old stock reason. He knew too much.’

      ‘What did he know?’

      ‘Why, that the narrator was living on a treasure originally robbed from a church in South America.’

      ‘But, if it was a treasure, who would care?’

      ‘The girl was a Catholic. And the murdered man knew more.’

      ‘How much more?’

      ‘This: to find out about the treasure, the narrator had taken priest’s orders, and, of course, could not marry. And the other man, being in love with the girl, threatened to tell, and so the lasso came in handy. It is a Protestant story and instructive.’

      ‘Jolly instructive! But, Miss Martin, you are the Guy Boothby of your sex!’

      At this supreme tribute the girl blushed like dawn upon the hills.

      ‘My word, she is pretty!’ thought Logan; but what he said was, ‘You know Mr. Tierney, your neighbour? Out of a job as a composition master. Almost reduced to University Extension Lectures on the didactic Drama.’

      Tierney was talking eagerly to his neighbour, a fascinating lady laundress, la belle blanchisseuse, about starch.

      Further off a lady instructress in cookery, Miss Frere, was conversing with a tutor of bridge.

      ‘Tierney,’ said Logan, in a pause, ‘may I present you to Miss Martin?’ Then he turned to Miss Markham, formerly known at St. Ursula’s as Milo. She had been a teacher of golf, hockey, cricket, fencing, and gymnastics, at a very large school for girls, in a very small town. Here she became society to such an alarming extent (no party being complete without her, while the colonels and majors never left her in peace), that her connection with education was abruptly terminated. At present raiment was draped on her magnificent shoulders at Madame Claudine’s. Logan, as he had told Merton, ‘occasionally met her,’ and Logan had the strongest reasons for personal conviction that she was absolutely proof against infection, in the trying circumstances to which a Disentangler is professionally exposed. Indeed she alone of the women present knew from Logan the purpose of the gathering.

      Cigarettes had replaced the desire of eating and drinking. Merton had engaged a withdrawing room, where he meant to be closeted with his guests, one by one, administer the oath, and prosecute delicate inquiries on the important question of immunity from infection. But, after a private word or two with Logan, he deemed these conspicuous formalities needless. ‘We have material enough to begin with,’ said Logan. ‘We knew beforehand that some of the men were safe, and certain of the women.’

      There was a balcony. The providence of nature had provided a full moon, and a night of balm. The imaginative maintained that the scent of hay was breathed, among other odours, over Pall Mall the Blest. Merton kept straying with one guest or another into a corner of the balcony. He hinted that there was a thing in prospect. Would the guest hold himself, or herself, ready at need? Next morning, if the promise was given, the guest might awake to peace of conscience. The scheme was beneficent, and, incidentally, cheerful.

      To some he mentioned retainers; money down, to speak grossly. Most accepted on the strength of Merton’s assurances that their services must always be ready. There were difficulties with Miss Willoughby and Miss Markham. The former lady (who needed it most) flatly refused the arrangement. Merton pleaded in vain. Miss Markham, the girl known to her contemporaries as Milo, could not hazard her present engagement at Madame Claudine’s. If she was needed by the scheme in the dead season she thought that she could be ready for whatever it was.

      Nobody was told exactly what the scheme was. It was only made clear that nobody was to be employed without the full and exhaustive knowledge of the employers, for whom Merton and Logan were merely agents. If in doubt, the agents might apply for counsel to the lady patronesses, whose very names tranquilised the most anxious inquirers. The oath was commuted for a promise, on honour, of secrecy. And, indeed, little if anything was told that could be revealed. The thing was not political: spies on Russia or France were not being recruited. That was made perfectly clear. Anybody might withdraw, if the prospect, when beheld nearer, seemed undesirable. A mystified but rather merry gathering walked away to remote lodgings, Miss Maskelyne alone patronising a hansom.

      On the day after the dinner Logan and Merton reviewed the event and its promise, taking Trevor into their counsels. They were not ill satisfied with the potential recruits.

      ‘There was one jolly little thing in white,’ said Trevor. ‘So pretty and flowering! “Cherries ripe themselves do cry,” a line in an old song, that’s what her face reminded me of. Who was she?’

      ‘She came with Miss Martin, the penny novelist,’ said Logan. ‘She is stopping with her. A country parson’s daughter, come up to town to try to live by typewriting.’

      ‘She will be of no use to us,’ said Merton. ‘If ever a young woman looked fancy-free