Porter.
Keggs could have whooped with delight had not such an action seemed to
him likely to prejudice his chances of retaining a good situation. He
contented himself with wriggling ecstatically. "The young person is not
in the house, madam."
"Not in the house? What business has she to be out? Where is she?"
"I could not tell you, madam." Keggs paused, reluctant to deal the
final blow, as a child lingers lovingly over the last lick of ice-cream
in a cone. "I last saw her at about five o'clock, driving off with Mr.
Winfield in an automobile."
"What!"
Keggs was content. His climax had not missed fire. Its staggering
effect was plain on the face of his hearer. For once Mrs. Porter's
poise had deserted her. Her one word had been a scream.
"She did not tell me her destination, madam," went on Keggs, making all
that could be made of what was left of the situation after its artistic
finish. "She came in and packed a suit-case and went out again and
joined Mr. Winfield in the automobile, and they drove off together."
Mrs. Porter recovered herself. This was a matter which called for
silent meditation, not for chit-chat with a garrulous butler.
"That will do, Keggs."
"Very good, madam."
Keggs withdrew to his pantry, well pleased. He considered that he had
done himself justice as a raconteur.
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