"Now," said Kathleen. "Oh, Jerry, don't be a goat! I'm simply dying
to hear what happened."

"That's better," said Gerald, and he told his story. As he told it
some of the white mystery and magic of the moonlit gardens got
into his voice and his words, so that when he told of the statues
that came alive, and the great beast that was alive through all its
stone, Kathleen thrilled responsive, clutching his arm, and even
Jimmy ceased to kick the wall with his boot heels, and listened
open-mouthed.

Then came the thrilling tale of the burglars, and the warning letter
flung into the peaceful company of Mabel, her aunt, and the
bread-and-butter pudding. Gerald told the story with the greatest
enjoyment and such fullness of detail that the church clock chimed
half-past eleven as he said, "Having done all that human agency
could do, and further help being despaired of, our gallant young
detective Hullo, there's Mabel!"

There was. The tail-board of a cart shed her almost at their feet.

"I couldn't wait any longer," she explained, "when you didn't come.
And I got a lift. Has anything more happened?" The burglars had
gone when Bates got to the strong-room.

"You don't mean to say all that wheeze is real?" Jimmy asked.

"Of course it's real," said Kathleen. "Go on, Jerry. He's just got to
where he threw the stone into your bread-and-butter pudding,