"I can tell you why, Harold. It was because Reggie belongs to that
sub-species of humanity known as practical jokers. This sort of thing
is his idea of humor."
"Humor! Losing us a priceless butler," said Harold. "If that's your
idea of----"
Hilda came back, pale and anxious. "Harold, dear, do come and help me
reason with Ponsonby. He is in the pantry gnawing a cold chicken, and
he only stops to say 'I give notice.'"
"Yes," said Ann. "Go, both of you. I wish to speak to Reggie alone."
That's how I came to lose Ann. At intervals during her remarks I tried
to put my side of the case, but it was no good. She wouldn't listen.
And presently something seemed to tell me that now was the time to go
to my room and pack. Half an hour later I slid silently into the night.
Wasn't it Shakespeare or somebody who said that the road to Hell--or
words to that effect--was paved with good intentions? If it was
Shakespeare, it just goes to prove what they are always saying about
him--that he knew a bit. Take it from one who knows, the old boy was
absolutely right.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, DEATH AT THE EXCELSIOR ***
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