ceived that now nothing would induce her to lift a finger to save him. Sir Reginald bustled up after her. I followed in a cold, murderous fury. When he came out on the top of the tower he was very short of breath. Without waiting to recover it, he stuttered out a pun.
It was the last straw. I could scarcely wait for Chelubai and his handkerchief; only by the most violent effort could I refrain from hurling Sir Reginald into space. Then the thought of Chelubai's disappointment at the loss of his chance of retrieving his unfortunate error in the case of Albert Amsted Pudleigh gave me control over myself. I began to cool down.
We examined the five counties from the four sides of the tower. Sir Reginald made puns on the names of three of them—incredible puns—puns so base that I cannot soil this page with them. I seethed.
Then the need came on me to say something—anything. By some odd chance the thing I found to say was: "You've put down the Children's Hospital in Jamaica Place for £5,000 in your will, haven't you, Sir Reginald?"
"No," said Sir Reginald, with a gurgling bleat. "I've left the £5,000 to the Mission to the Patagonians. My great-aunt Amelia was interested in them."
My blood ran cold; he could not have cooled it
