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Updated: June 13, 2025
No; poison was the thing. Easy to take, quick to work, and on the whole rather agreeable than otherwise. Mr Meggs hid the glass behind the inkpot and rang the bell. 'Has Miss Pillenger arrived? he inquired of the servant. 'She has just come, sir. 'Tell her that I am waiting for her here. Jane Pillenger was an institution.
That is to say, on the rare occasions when Mr Meggs's conscience overcame his indolence to the extent of forcing him to resume work on his British Butterflies, it was to Miss Pillenger that he addressed the few rambling and incoherent remarks which constituted his idea of a regular hard, slogging spell of literary composition.
You give me money, you shower your vile kisses on me, but nothing was farther from your mind than the obvious interpretation of such behaviour! Before coming to Mr Meggs, Miss Pillenger had been secretary to an Indiana novelist. She had learned style from the master. 'Now that you have gone too far, you are frightened at what you have done. You well may be, Mr Meggs. I am only a working-girl
Miss Pillenger was not entirely sorry to obey the request. Mr Meggs's sudden fury had startled and frightened her. So long as she could end the scene victorious, she was anxious to withdraw. 'Yes, I will go, she said, with dignity, as she opened the door. 'Now that you have revealed yourself in your true colours, Mr Meggs, this house is no fit place for a wor
'Kill him, advised an austere bystander. 'What do you mean you were going to murder the lady? inquired Constable Gooch. Mr Meggs found speech. 'I I I I only wanted those letters. 'What for? 'They're mine. 'You charge her with stealing 'em? 'He gave them me to post with his own hands, cried Miss Pillenger. 'I know I did, but I want them back.
Surely I may be permitted to give you some token of my appreciation of your fidelity. He took the pile of notes. 'These are for you, Miss Pillenger. He rose and handed them to her. He eyed her for a moment with all the sentimentality of a man whose digestion has been out of order for over two decades. The pathos of the situation swept him away.
'Save me! said Miss Pillenger. Mr Meggs pointed speechlessly to the letters, which she still grasped in her right hand. He had taken practically no exercise for twenty years, and the pace had told upon him. Constable Gooch, guardian of the town's welfare, tightened his hold on Mr Meggs's arm, and desired explanations. 'He he was going to murder me, said Miss Pillenger.
He had given them to the demon Pillenger, and, if he did not overtake her and get them back, she would mail them. Of all the mixed thoughts which seethed in Mr Meggs's mind at that moment, easily the most prominent was the reflection that from his front door to the post office was a walk of less than five minutes.
Perhaps it was the pathos of this thought which touched Mr Meggs, as she sailed, notebook in hand, through the doorway of the study. Here, he told himself, was a confiding girl, all unconscious of impending doom, relying on him as a daughter relies on her father. He was glad that he had not forgotten Miss Pillenger when he was making his preparations.
The only form of dance extant and that only at the rarest intervals was a sort of polka not unlike the movements of a slightly inebriated boxing kangaroo. Mr Meggs's secretaries and typists gave the town one startled, horrified glance, and stampeded for London like frightened ponies. Not so Miss Pillenger. She remained.
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