Behind him a
door slammed and a key clicked. He was trapped. Groping in
Egyptian darkness, his hands met a coat, then a hat, then an
umbrella. Then he stumbled over a golf-club and fell against a
wall. It was too dark to see anything, but his sense of touch told
him all he needed to know. He had been added to the vicar's
collection of odds and ends in the closet reserved for that
purpose.
He groped his way to the door and kicked it. He did not repeat the
performance. His feet were in no shape for kicking things.
Percy's gallant soul abandoned the struggle. With a feeble oath, he
sat down on a box containing croquet implements, and gave himself
up to thought.
"You'll be quite safe now," the curate was saying in the adjoining
room, not without a touch of complacent self-approval such as
becomes the victor in a battle of wits. "I have locked him in the
cupboard. He will be quite happy there." An incorrect statement
this. "You may now continue your walk in perfect safety."
"Thank you ever so much," said Maud. "But I do hope he won't be
violent when you let him out."
"I shall not let him out," replied the curate, who, though brave,
was not rash.
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