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Python Packages
Chapman & Hall/CRC
The Python Series

About the Series

Python has been ranked as the most popular programming language, and it is widely used
in education and industry. This book series will offer a wide range of books on Python
for students and professionals. Titles in the series will help users learn the language at an
introductory and advanced level, and explore its many applications in data science, AI, and
machine learning. Series titles can also be supplemented with Jupyter notebooks.

Image Processing and Acquisition using Python, Second Edition

Ravishankar Chityala, Sridevi Pudipeddi

Python Packages
Tomas Beuzen and Tiffany Timbers

For more information about this series please visit: https://www.crcpress.com/Chapman-

-HallCRC/book-series/PYTH
Python Packages

Tomas Beuzen
Tiffany Timbers
First edition published 2022
by CRC Press
6000 Broken Sound Parkway NW, Suite 300, Boca Raton, FL 33487-2742

and by CRC Press

4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN

CRC Press is an imprint of Taylor & Francis Group, LLC

© 2022 Tomas Beuzen and Tiffany Timbers

Reasonable efforts have been made to publish reliable data and information, but the author
and publisher cannot assume responsibility for the validity of all materials or the conse-
quences of their use. The authors and publishers have attempted to trace the copyright
holders of all material reproduced in this publication and apologize to copyright holders if
permission to publish in this form has not been obtained. If any copyright material has not
been acknowledged please write and let us know so we may rectify in any future reprint.

Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Law, no part of this book may be reprinted,
reproduced, transmitted, or utilized in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other
means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying, microfilming, and re-
cording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission
from the publishers.

For permission to photocopy or use material electronically from this work, access www.
copyright.com or contact the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc. (CCC), 222 Rosewood
Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, 978-750-8400. For works that are not available on CCC please
contact mpkbookspermissions@tandf.co.uk

Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trade-

marks and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe.

ISBN: 978-1-032-03825-4 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-1-032-02944-3 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-003-18925-1 (ebk)

DOI: 10.1201/9781003189251

Publisher’s note: This book has been prepared from camera-ready copy provided by the
authors.
 To you, the Reader.
Never stop learning. You are capable of anything.
Contents

List of Figures xi

List of Tables xiii

Preface xv

About the authors xix

1 Introduction 1
1.1 Why you should create packages . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

2 System setup 3
2.1 The command-line interface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
2.2 Installing software . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
2.2.1 Installing Python . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
2.2.2 Install packaging software . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
2.3 Register for a PyPI account . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
2.4 Set up Git and GitHub . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
2.5 Python integrated development environments . . . . . . . . . 6
2.5.1 Visual Studio Code . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
2.5.2 JupyterLab . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
2.5.3 RStudio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
2.6 Developing with Docker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
2.6.1 Docker with Visual Studio Code . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
2.6.2 Docker with JupyterLab . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14

3 How to package a Python 17

3.1 Counting words in a text file . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
3.1.1 Developing our code . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
3.1.2 Turning our code into functions . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
3.2 Package structure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
3.2.1 A brief introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
3.2.2 Creating a package structure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
3.3 Put your package under version control . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
3.3.1 Set up local version control . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
3.3.2 Set up remote version control . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
3.4 Packaging your code . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30

vii
viii Contents

3.5 Test drive your package code . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

3.5.1 Create a virtual environment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
3.5.2 Installing your package . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
3.6 Adding dependencies to your package . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
3.6.1 Dependency version constraints . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
3.7 Testing your package . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
3.7.1 Writing tests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
3.7.2 Running tests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
3.7.3 Code coverage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
3.8 Package documentation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
3.8.1 Writing documentation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
3.8.2 Writing docstrings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
3.8.3 Creating usage examples . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
3.8.4 Building documentation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
3.8.5 Hosting documentation online . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
3.9 Tagging a package release with version control . . . . . . . . 72
3.10 Building and distributing your package . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
3.10.1 Building your package . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
3.10.2 Publishing to TestPyPI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
3.10.3 Publishing to PyPI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
3.11 Summary and next steps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79

4 Package structure and distribution 83

4.1 Packaging fundamentals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83
4.2 Package structure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
4.2.1 Package contents . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
4.2.2 Package and module names . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92
4.2.3 Intra-package references . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
4.2.4 The init file . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94
4.2.5 Including non-code files in a package . . . . . . . . . . 97
4.2.6 Including data in a package . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98
4.2.7 The source layout . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
4.3 Package distribution and installation . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
4.3.1 Package installation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
4.3.2 Building sdists and wheels . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
4.3.3 Packaging tools . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
4.3.4 Package repositories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
4.4 Version control . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110

5 Testing 111
5.1 Testing workflow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
5.2 Test structure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
5.3 Writing tests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
5.3.1 Unit tests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
5.3.2 Test that a specific error is raised . . . . . . . . . . . . 120
Contents ix

5.3.3 Integration tests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123

5.3.4 Regression tests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124
5.3.5 How many tests should you write . . . . . . . . . . . . 126
5.4 Advanced testing methods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126
5.4.1 Fixtures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
5.4.2 Parameterizations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129
5.5 Code coverage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132
5.5.1 Line coverage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133
5.5.2 Branch coverage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
5.5.3 Calculating coverage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
5.5.4 Coverage reports . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
5.6 Version control . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138

6 Documentation 139
6.1 Documentation content and workflow . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139
6.2 Writing documentation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
6.2.1 README . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144
6.2.2 License . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145
6.2.3 Contributing guidelines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146
6.2.4 Code of conduct . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146
6.2.5 Changelog . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
6.2.6 Examples . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148
6.2.7 Docstrings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
6.2.8 Application programming interface (API) reference . . 153
6.2.9 Other package documentation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153
6.3 Building documentation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154
6.4 Hosting documentation online . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162

7 Releasing and versioning 165

7.1 Version numbering . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165
7.2 Version bumping . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168
7.2.1 Manual version bumping . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168
7.2.2 Automatic version bumping . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169
7.3 Checklist for releasing a new package version . . . . . . . . . 172
7.3.1 Step 1: make changes to package source files . . . . . . 173
7.3.2 Step 2: document your changes . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173
7.3.3 Step 3: bump version number . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174
7.3.4 Step 4: run tests and build documentation . . . . . . . 176
7.3.5 Step 5: tag a release with version control . . . . . . . . 177
7.3.6 Step 6: build and release package to PyPI . . . . . . . 178
7.4 Automating releases . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181
7.5 Breaking changes and deprecating package functionality . . . 181
7.6 Updating dependency versions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183
x Contents

8 Continuous integration and deployment 185

8.1 An introduction to CI/CD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185
8.2 CI/CD tools . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 186
8.3 Introduction to GitHub Actions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187
8.3.1 Key concepts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187
8.3.2 A toy example . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 188
8.3.3 Actions and commands . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192
8.4 Setting up continuous integration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193
8.4.1 Setup . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193
8.4.2 Running tests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196
8.4.3 Recording code coverage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196
8.4.4 Build documentation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197
8.4.5 Testing continuous integration . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198
8.5 Setting up continuous deployment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200
8.5.1 Setup . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201
8.5.2 Automatically creating a new package version . . . . . 204
8.5.3 Uploading to TestPyPI and PyPI . . . . . . . . . . . . 207
8.5.4 Testing continuous deployment . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210
8.6 Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214

Bibliography 219

Index 221
List of Figures

2.1 Installing the Python extension in Visual Studio Code. . . . . 7

2.2 Executing a simple Python file called hello-world.py from the
integrated terminal in Visual Studio Code. . . . . . . . . . . . 8
2.3 Executing a simple Python file called hello-world.py from a
terminal in JupyterLab. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
2.4 Executing Python code in the RStudio. . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

3.1 Creating a new repository in GitHub. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

3.2 Setting up a new repository in GitHub. . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
3.3 Instructions on how to link local and remote version control
repositories. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
3.4 Example figure created from the plotting function. . . . . . . 38
3.5 Rendered version of README.md. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
3.6 A simple Jupyter Notebook using code from pycounts. . . . . 61
3.7 First half of Jupyter Notebook demonstrating an example work-
flow using the pycounts package. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
3.8 Second half of Jupyter Notebook demonstrating an example
workflow using the pycounts package. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
3.9 The documentation homepage generated by sphinx. . . . . . . 63
3.10 Documentation for the pycounts plotting module. . . . . . . . 69
3.11 Jupyter Notebook example rendered into pycounts’s documen-
tation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
3.12 Tag of v0.1.0 of pycounts on GitHub. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
3.13 Making a release of v0.1.0 of pycounts on GitHub. . . . . . . 74
3.14 Release of v0.1.0 of pycounts on GitHub. . . . . . . . . . . . . 75

4.1 Keep package names meaningful, memorable, and manageable. 93

4.2 The Python package cycle. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104

5.1 The testing workflow. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113

5.2 HTML test report. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
5.3 Detailed view of the datasets module in the HTML report. . 137

6.1 Example of HTML documentation generated by sphinx. . . . 142

6.2 First half of Jupyter Notebook demonstrating an example work-
flow using the pycounts package. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150

xi
xii List of Figures

6.3 Second half of Jupyter Notebook demonstrating an example

workflow using the pycounts package. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
6.4 API reference for the pycounts package. . . . . . . . . . . . . 154
6.5 API reference for the pycounts.plotting package. . . . . . . . 155
6.6 The documentation homepage generated by sphinx. . . . . . . 157
6.7 Jupyter Notebook example rendered into pycounts’s documen-
tation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161

7.1 Tag of v0.2.0 of pycounts on GitHub. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178

7.2 Release v0.2.0 of pycounts on GitHub. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179

8.1 Setting up our first GitHub Actions workflow. . . . . . . . . . 188

8.2 Our first GitHub Actions workflow. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190
8.3 The logs of our first GitHub Actions workflow. . . . . . . . . 191
8.4 Example of the Codecov dashboard linked to a repository called
pypkgs. Coverage decreased significantly after the most recent
commit. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 198
8.5 Successfully run continuous integration workflow on GitHub. 200
8.6 Continuous integration workflow logs. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201
8.7 Adding the TestPyPI API token to our GitHub repository. . 208
8.8 Adding the PyPI API token to our GitHub repository. . . . . 209
8.9 Continuous deployment workflow on GitHub. . . . . . . . . . 212
8.10 Successfully run continuous deployment workflow on GitHub. 213
8.11 The Python semantic release tool automatically bumped the
package version from 0.2.0 to 0.3.0. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
8.12 The Python semantic release tool automatically updated the
changelog and added an entry for v0.3.0 based on commit mes-
sages. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 215
8.13 The Python semantic release tool automatically created tagged
release v0.3.0. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 216
8.14 Deployment of new package version 0.3.0 to PyPI. . . . . . . 217
List of Tables

0.1 Concepts this book assumes readers have basic familiarity with. xvi

3.1 A description of the py-pkgs-cookiecutter template prompts. . 24

3.2 A description of the tables in the pyproject.toml. . . . . . . . 34
3.3 Typical Python package documentation. . . . . . . . . . . . . 50

4.1 Demonstration of absolute and relative intra-package imports. 94

6.1 Typical Python package documentation. . . . . . . . . . . . . 139

7.1 Examples of major, minor, and patch releases of Python. . . . 167

8.1 Terminology used in GitHub Actions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187

8.2 Description of Python Semantic Release configuration options. 205

xiii
Other documents randomly have
different content
 The Inspector graciously accepted this aid to the readjustment
of ruffled plumes.
Constable Graves, returning a trifle heated, a few moments
later, also consented to be soothed in a like manner. It would be too
much to say that Constable Graves had been sulking with his
superior officer; it would not be too much to say that he had been
feeling a trifle resentful. This was his little murder after all; it was he
who had been enclosed in the cupboard; it was his astuteness which
had bidden him lie low while the body was being removed, in order
to collect invaluable evidence—yet here was the Inspector taking the
whole thing into his own hands, bellowing at him as if he had been
the actual criminal, and not allowing him to put a word in edgeways!
Constable Graves felt he had legitimate cause for resentment. He
had been able to work some of it off upon Mr. Foster and now felt a
little better. A contemplation of the generous allowance of whisky
which Guy poured into his glass made him feel better still.
The police were not the only persons to view Mr. Foster’s
retirement with complacency. Mr. Doyle was also glad to see him go.
The enlistment of Mr. Foster’s aid had seemed a mixed blessing to
Mr. Doyle; certainly his testimony was useful in one way, in another it
was embarrassing. While feeling all proper respect for his fiancée’s
nimble exploitation of the situation, he did agree with Guy that the
introduction of a Crown Prince was overdoing things a little. Besides,
this man Foster was such a consummate ass that he might make
trouble out of sheer well-meaning enthusiasm.
Another matter was also in the forefront of Mr. Doyle’s mind. So
far he had only heard the Inspector’s version of the constable’s story,
and that astute man’s sojourn in the cupboard had been glossed
over a little hurriedly; Inspector Cottingham seemed to feel that his
subordinate’s ignominy in this connection was reflected to some
degree upon himself. Mr. Doyle was now anxious to put a few
questions on this subject to the principal actor.
Permission to do so having been craved of the Inspector with
tactful humility and graciously given, Doyle drew the constable a little
aside. Guy, seeing what was in the wind, at once engaged the
Inspector in earnest conversation. Doyle found himself with more or
less of a free hand.
 “While you were in the cupboard, constable,” he began, “I
suppose you heard these people moving about when they took away
the body, didn’t you?”
The constable smiled benignly. Here, at any rate, was
somebody who took him and his cupboard seriously. He expanded,
both metaphorically and literally, hooking a thumb in the front of his
belt as if to guard against expanding too far. “Heard ’em, sir?” he
repeated benevolently. “Bless you, I saw ’em!”
With a praiseworthy effort Mr. Doyle refrained from leaping
violently into the air. “The deuce you did!” he exclaimed, a little
faintly. “Er—saw them, did you say?”
The constable was pleased with the evident impression he had
made. He expanded a little further still, to the imminent danger of his
belt.
“Yes, sir, that I did. Through the key-hole. Saw em as plainly as I
see you this very minute.”
“That—that’s excellent,” said Mr. Doyle, wriggling uneasily under
the constable’s kindly eye. He plunged at a question that was
burning a hole in his tongue. “And—and do you think you would
recognise them if you saw them again?”
“Not a doubt of it, sir,” replied the constable heartily. “Ho, yes, I’d
recognise ’em quick enough. Desprit villains they was too,” he added
with gusto.
Mr. Doyle was recovering his grip on himself. “That’s very
important,” he said gravely. “You had a good view of them then?”
“Well,” said the constable with some reluctance, “pretty good,
that is, sir. I couldn’t see ’em all the time, because of how the key-
hole was facing, if you see what I mean. Just now and then I saw
’em. Pulling the body out, f’rinstance. On a mat, they did. Pulled him
out on a mat. Wouldn’t ’ardly believe it, would you, sir? Now, I
wonder why they did that.”
“So do I,” said Mr. Doyle in feeble agreement.
The constable ruminated. “Might just as well ’ave carried him.
Not but what he wasn’t a tidy weight. Big man, he was. Crown Prince
they say, don’t they?”
“So I hear. But look here, about these—er—villains, could you
describe them, do you think?”
 “Near enough, sir. There was two of ’em, a big feller and a little
un’. One of ’em was big, you see, and the other wasn’t; well, little
you might call ’im. Undersized.”
“Little will do, I think. Yes?”
“They was wearing ’ats and coats, so I couldn’t see their faces
not too well, I couldn’t, but you could see they were foreigners.”
“Oh? How?”
“Because they were talking a foreign language,” returned the
constable with triumph. “That’s ’ow I knew they were foreigners.
They were talking a foreign language. There was a girl too.”
“A girl, eh?” said Mr. Doyle uneasily.
“Yes. I’d seen her before, of course, and let ’er slip through my
fingers, I’m afraid. She knew I was in the cupboard too, but she
didn’t know I was watching ’er. Funny thing, too, she’d taken off her
hat and furs and things. Now I wonder why she done that?”
“Perhaps she was hot. Er—I suppose you’d recognise her
again, wouldn’t you?”
“I would, and all,” replied the constable grimly.
“That’s fine,” said Mr. Doyle, without conviction. This was a snag
he had not foreseen. He blessed himself for the happy piece of
foolery which had caused Nesbitt and himself to dress for their part
and cover their faces with the mufflers. In the meantime Dora would
certainly have to lie low till she got back to London.
“Now, sir,” the Inspector’s voice remarked in rolling tones. “Now,
Mr. Doyle, if you’ll come with me down the road to where you’re
staying, I’d just like to ask the members of the household there if
they heard anything. Mr. Howard, isn’t it? Who else is there?”
For the fraction of a second Mr. Doyle lost his head. “Nobody!”
he said swiftly.
To his guilty mind it seemed as if the Inspector’s eye became
suddenly less genial. “What, nobody else?” he said.
“Nobody!” repeated the guilty one firmly.
“No maids, even?”
Mr. Doyle drew a breath of relief. “No, no maids. Their maids
come in by the day. Mr. Howard and I were quite alone this evening.”
“Who keeps house for him, then?”
 “Oh, his sister. Er—Miss Howard. But she’s away for the week-
end.” Mr. Doyle cocked an anxious eye at the door, to reassure
himself that Laura was not coming down the passage towards them
at that moment, complete with handcuff and accomplice.
“Oh, I see. Well, come along, then, sir. And, Graves, you’d
better come, too. Thank you, Mr. Nesbitt, sir; I think I’ve finished here
now. But it’s a pity you threw that note away. If you only remembered
where you’d thrown it, I’d have a search made. Try and think during
the next few hours. Mrs. Nesbitt might know; ask her. It’d be a
valuable clue. Are you ready, then, Mr. Doyle, sir?”
As Doyle went out of the room he caught a look from Guy. The
look said quite plainly: “Come back here when you’ve got rid of him.”
Doyle nodded.
Followed by the constable, they made their way out to the road.
“And while I’m speaking to Mr. Howard,” remarked the Inspector
very airily. “I expect you’d like to be telephoning your report through
to The Courier, wouldn’t you?”
Doyle nodded. He had already taken the opportunity of ringing
up The Courier, and asking the editor to hold a couple of columns for
him if possible as he had a scoop of the first magnitude, and without
divulging too much of its nature, he had succeeded in obtaining
exceedingly good terms if it should, in the editor’s opinion, come up
to its rosy forecast; it was too late to send one of The Courier’s own
men down, and Doyle, being a freelance, had been able to make
almost his own terms. They were very good terms indeed, and they
provided for the future as well as for the present. Mr. Doyle ought to
have been exceedingly buoyant.
Yet his nod in answer to the Inspector’s suggestion had been an
absent one. To tell the truth, he was engaged in wondering very
busily how he was going to warn George to say nothing about Dora’s
presence in the house, and Dora to conceal herself with efficiency
and despatch, before the Inspector surprised the truth out of either of
them.
Mr. Doyle was not quite sure whether he was enjoying himself or
not.
“It’s a funny business altogether,” pronounced the Inspector, as
they turned in at the next gate. “Tell you what it reminds me of, sir.
It’s like nothing so much as one of those shilling shockers you read
on a railway journey. Now, another case of murder I had down in
these parts once….”
Even that could not resolve Mr. Doyle’s perplexity for him.
 Chapter VIII.
Two into One Will Go
The truth was that Mr. Priestley had suddenly given way to his
overwrought nerves. He had a perfectly sound reason for wanting to
get himself and his cuff-mate securely alone inside that bedroom, but
when he heard himself being called a cad, before he had even had
time to explain (if explanation were needed) that his intentions were
strictly honourable, the words had simply frozen on his lips. The
mildest of men will show signs of unrest on hearing the word “cad”
directed at themselves from the lips of a pretty girl, and Mr. Priestley,
as he had already proved to his own surprise, was apparently not the
mildest of men. His subsequent outburst, the cumulative result of
desperate anxiety manfully suppressed and blank horror, simply
followed.
Before they had preceded the landlady into the charming pink-
and-white bedroom, on whose hearth a fire was already miraculously
burning, sanity had returned and he was mildly penitent for the
freedom of his speech. Not very penitent, however, for the sooner
some one told this obnoxious young woman a few home-truths, the
better for the world in general.
Affectionately hand-in-hand they stood, while the landlady
rapidly praised her room and apologised for it in the same breath,
and, intent on their respective thoughts, heard not a single word. Mr.
Priestley was now far too anxious regarding the outcome of the next
few minutes to feel more than a passing embarrassment concerning
that outcome’s setting; while as for Laura, that humorous young
woman was still wondering in a dazed sort of way exactly what
unpleasant consequences this ridiculous joke was going to bring
upon her, and how on earth she was going to avoid at any rate the
worst of them.
 It had struck her with some force that to tell the truth now, as a
last desperate resource, was simply to invite ridicule. The truth, in
fact, sounded thinner than the thinnest story she could possibly
invent—far less plausible than the one she had so proudly originated
in the tube train about twelve years ago. Mr. Priestley would only
take it as yet another of her endless subterfuges and hypocrisies,
and no doubt wax correspondingly drastic. It was a singularly
chastened young woman who clasped her companion’s hand with
mechanical fingers and turned a dull ear to the stream of the little
landlady’s volubility.
“I think you’ll find the bed comfortable, mum,” the little landlady
was now saying. “Not but what it mightn’t be newer than it is, but
——”
“Thank you, I’m sure we shall find it comfortable,” put in Mr.
Priestley, whose one anxiety was to get the landlady out of the room
and the door locked behind her.
Laura started nervously. Had she been mistaken, or was there a
ring of grim triumph in Mr. Priestley’s voice? For about the first time
in her life Laura began to feel seriously frightened.
With growing alarm she found her right wrist twisted round to the
small of her back as Mr. Priestley put his arm about her waist and
drew her towards him. She flinched, but the pressure was
inexorable. Her knees feeling unpleasantly wobbly, she allowed
herself to be pressed affectionately to Mr. Priestley’s side. As a
matter of strict fact, all that Mr. Priestley wanted to do was to
consolidate their joint front in order to advance upon the landlady in
phalanx-formation and force her out of the room; but Laura did not
know that. It was occurring to Laura very vividly that really one
simply didn’t know where one was with men; the Girls’ Friendly
Societies must be right after all; and she had thought Mr. Priestley of
all men could be trusted.
By sheer weight of numbers Mr. Priestley succeeded in driving
the landlady to the door. The landlady did not wish to go at all.
Beside her natural desire to give her tongue a little trot after having
had nobody to exercise it for her since four o’clock that afternoon,
except Annie (who didn’t count one way or the other), she was much
enjoying the spectacle of this nice couple, so unaffectedly lover-like
even in her presence. Why, they never left go of one another for a
single instant! It was a sight for sore eyes, that it was.
Still, when two persons relentlessly advance upon a narrow
doorway, the third, and smallest, member of the trio must give way.
“Well, if you’ll put your things outside the door in a few minutes,” she
smilingly covered her retreat, “I’ll see they’re nice and dry for you in
the morning. And I’m sorry about you not having no luggage with
you, but I hope you’ll manage with what I’ve put out on the bed.
Good-night, then, mum; good-night, sir.”
“Good-night,” said Mr. Priestley, and feverishly shut the door on
the good woman. He did not scruple to turn the key in the lock.
With a sigh of relief he turned back into the room. A voluminous
red flannel night-gown, draped chastely over the end of the bed
beside a still more voluminous white flannel night-shirt, caught his
eye for the first time and he smiled absently. Somebody (he had not
the faintest idea who) must at some time have explained away their
absence of luggage, and this was the good woman’s reply. He
smiled again.
Laura saw the smile and trembled. To her alarmed eye it was
the smile of gloating anticipation. Her already enfeebled knees
sagged a little further.
“And now,” said Mr. Priestley, “to business!” and he walked
briskly towards the bed. The way to the wash-stand, it may be
remarked, took him past the end of the bed.
It was the last straw. Unable to bear this final blow, Laura’s long-
suffering knees collapsed altogether. She tottered into a chair.
“Please!” said Laura faintly. “Don’t!”
“Why not?” asked the surprised Mr. Priestley, who only wanted
to go to the wash-stand.
“Because—because—well, surely you see.”
“Upon my soul, I don’t,” said Mr. Priestley, his eyes fixed
longingly on the wash-stand.
Laura coloured deeply. For a young woman who prided herself
upon being above all things modern she found herself horribly
embarrassed. “Well,” she said desperately, “it—it isn’t playing the
game exactly, is it?”
“Why ever not?” asked Mr. Priestley in astonishment.
 There was an uneasy pause.
“You’re—you’re stronger than me, of course,” Laura pleaded in
her most heartrending tones. Laura had often employed these useful
tones with malicious intent; now she was using them in deadly
earnest. “You’re—you’re stronger than me, and you know I can’t very
well cry for help. You know I’m in your power, if you do use force, but
——” Her voice, trembling with real terror, died away. She moistened
her dry lips.
Mr. Priestley began to get annoyed. Here he was, anchored to a
chair, when he wanted to be at that wash-stand. What on earth had
the wretched girl got into her head now? It was the last hope. Did
she want to go on wearing these damnable handcuffs?
“I shall certainly use force,” he said crossly, “if you persist in
being so unreasonable.”
“I’m not unreasonable!” Laura cried, her fear giving way to
indignation before this distorted view.
“Indeed you are,” said Mr. Priestley with legitimate irritation.
“Extremely unreasonable. What’s the point? Besides, to put the
matter on personal grounds, I’ve surely done enough for you to
enable you to do this little thing for me.”
“Oh!” Laura gasped. “Little thing!”
“Besides,” said Mr. Priestley quite angrily, “it may not even be
successful.”
“I’ll see that it isn’t!” said Laura grimly, when she had recovered
her breath.
“But we must try it, at any rate. Now, please come along, and
stop being so absurd.” And grasping her wrist, Mr. Priestley pulled.
Her eyes sparkling stormily, Laura pulled back. Now that it had
come to the point, her fears seemed to have left her. She was just
furiously angry.
“I—I warn you,” she panted, “if you use force, you—you brute,
I’ll fight back. I’ll—I’ll——”
Mr. Priestley stopped pulling and looked at her with something
like despair. “But, good Heavens!” he exclaimed. “In the name of
goodness, why don’t you want to?”
Laura also stopped pulling in sheer amazement. She could
hardly believe her ears. Could this absurd little man really be as
incredibly conceited as all that!
“You dare ask me that?” she demanded, her bosom heaving.
Mr. Priestley rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. He had heard a lot
about the unreasonableness of women, but he had never heard
anything that came within a mile of this. “Surely it’s an obvious
question,” he murmured resignedly.
“Well, then, I’ll answer it,” Laura snapped. “Because I hate the
sight of you! Now are you satisfied?”
It was Mr. Priestley’s turn to look incredulous. Besides being
grossly unfair, considering all that had happened that evening, the
answer appeared to be that of a complete imbecile. “That seems a
very strange reason for wanting to go on being handcuffed to me,”
he articulated.
“Good Heavens, I don’t want to go on being handcuffed to you!
There’s nothing I want less in the world, you—you beast! I—oh!” And
Laura, the devilish-minded Laura, terror of her brother and all who
knew her, buried her face in the crook of her free arm and burst into
real tears of mortification and alarm.
Mr. Priestley stared at her aghast. So far as he could see, this
extraordinary young woman had suddenly gone off her head. After
threatening to fight him if he tried their last resource for getting rid of
the handcuffs, she was now apparently weeping at the idea of not
doing so. Women, in Mr. Priestley’s mind at that moment, was
represented by one large question-mark.
Then suddenly suspicion invaded him. She had pretended to
weep once before, and that time he had been taken in, with horrible
consequences. Was it not highly probable that she was doing exactly
the same thing again, relying on its previous success? What could
possibly be her objection to his proposal. Mr. Priestley was unable to
understand, but whatever it was it must be swept aside. He was
going to be trifled with no longer.
With sudden determination he gathered the drooping body up in
his arms and pursued his interrupted journey.
“Oh, no!” moaned a despairing voice from somewhere near his
left shoulder. For a young woman who had just expressed her
determination to fight to the death, Laura felt remarkably limp. But
Laura was limp. For some strange reason the stuffing had been
knocked out of her just as suddenly as it had arrived. She could not
at that moment have stood up to a blue-bottle; and Mr. Priestley was
far more formidable than any blue-bottle. Perhaps the strain of the
evening had told on her more than she had realised; she was still
cold, she was still clammy, her nerves were in shreds and her food
had only given her indigestion. She felt like one of her own wet
stockings.
“No!” she moaned again, but without hope.
Mr. Priestley set his teeth. It was a heartrending cry and it did
make him feel a brute not to be able to heed it, but really——!
He carried her swiftly to the wash-stand, set her on her feet and,
keeping a wary grip on her wrist, reached for the soap.
“Now then!” he said triumphantly, dipping it in the warm water
and doing his best to produce a serviceable lather with one hand.
Laura opened her eyes and watched him dazedly. He seemed
to be washing one hand in the hot-water can. It was probably very
devilish, but its exact purpose escaped her for the moment. He
began to soap her own inert hand.
And then, in a series of blinding flashes, Laura’s mind was
illuminated.
Her first coherent thought was overwhelming relief. Her next an
equally overwhelming, but less reasonable, anger. She stamped her
foot. “Is this what you were meaning all the time?” she asked
wrathfully. From her tone one might have deduced that she was
suffering a fearful disappointment, yet this was not really the case.
“Of course,” said Mr. Priestley in surprise, lathering vigorously.
“Then why on earth didn’t you say so?”
“But I did! Half a dozen times.”
“You didn’t!”
“Didn’t I?” Mr. Priestley’s surprise was genuine enough, but he
was much more interested at the moment in his experiment with the
soap. “But surely I told you downstairs? What else do you imagine I
wanted this bedroom for?”
Laura brushed away the remnants of her tears with an indignant
hand. It is seldom given to mortal man, and still less to mortal
woman, to feel quite so incredibly foolish as Laura did at that
moment. She did not appear to appreciate the privilege conferred
upon her.
“I didn’t know what you wanted it for,” she said, with feeble
pettishness.
“But didn’t you understand what I was wanting you to come and
do?” asked Mr. Priestley, but a little absently, for he really was
extraordinarily interested in that soap. One might say that at that
moment Mr. Priestley’s heart was in his soap. “What did you think I
wanted, then?”
“Something else,” said Laura curtly, looking out of the window
and feeling that she would begin to scream very loudly if Mr.
Priestley asked her one single more awkward question on this topic.
Fortunately her powers of self-control were not to be put to such
a drastic test. “There!” said Mr. Priestley, with mingled satisfaction
and anxiety. “I don’t think I can get it any more soapy than that. Now,
I’m going to pull. I’m afraid it may hurt you.”
“Hurt away!” said Laura grimly. She felt as if it was quite time
that somebody hurt her—as indeed it was.
Mr. Priestley proceeded to gratify her wishes.
“Oh!” squeaked Laura, hastily changing her mind.
“Hold on!” exhorted Mr. Priestley through set teeth. “It’s nearly
off!” He resumed his efforts.
There were two more squeaks, and many others nobly
repressed, and then two sighs of triumph.
“Well played, by Jove!” said Mr. Priestley, with the wondering
admiration of every male for a female who can stand up to pain
without flinching.
“Thank God!” said Laura, tears of agony in her eyes. “And thank
you, Mr. Mullins, too,” she added. It has already been mentioned that
Laura was a just girl. So she was, quite often.
As if with a common understanding they dropped into chairs and
relaxed. The next moment, with a more uncommon understanding,
they got up simultaneously, drew their respective chairs as close as
possible to the fire and relaxed again.
“And now,” said Mr. Priestley, beaming at his companion with
benevolent triumph through his glasses, “now what are we going to
do?” It was not the least of Mr. Priestley’s achievements that evening
that through all its hectic developments he had managed to keep his
glasses intact upon the bridge of his nose, even when travelling at
forty-five miles an hour in the teeth of a miniature blizzard.
Laura looked at him with something that was not quite respect,
and not quite affection, but somehow, contained the ingredients of
both. Now that he had succeeded in freeing her of that odious
handcuff, and been displayed, incidentally, as the complete little
gentleman he was, Laura’s feelings towards him had undergone yet
another revulsion. At one bound Mr. Priestley had recovered his
proper place m her estimation. Handcuffs are an excellent substitute
for a time machine. Laura had only known Mr. Priestley, as time is
ordinarily reckoned, for a paltry half-dozen hours; she felt as if she
had known him intimately for as many years. And he really was
rather a dear!
Undoubtedly, Laura now decided once more, it was a shame to
be hoaxing him in this way, when the poor man was taking it all so
desperately in earnest. For the hundredth time, but for different
reasons on almost each occasion, it was on the tip of her tongue to
tell him the truth, nearly the whole truth, and hardly anything but the
truth. For the hundredth time she refrained. The continuance of the
beam through Mr. Priestley’s glasses decided her this time. It was
borne in upon Laura that in a way Mr. Priestley really was enjoying
himself, at any rate he was living Life with a capital L; and she felt
that, after the good turn he had just done her, he did deserve
something better at her hands than such an anti-climax as the truth
would be. Besides, Laura reminded herself more sternly, it was
probably all exceedingly good for him.
“What shall we do?” she repeated meekly. “Well, that seems to
be for you to say, Mr. Mullins. I’m rather in your hands, aren’t I?” And
she edged uneasily away from some of her clamminess and
suppressed a shiver.
Mr. Priestley noticed both movements. “Very well,” he said
promptly. “I want to have a talk with you, of course, but it’s no good
running the risk of pneumonia. You must get out of those wet clothes
of yours. I’ll go down to the kitchen and do the same.”
Laura approved of this programme, and intimated as much with
some warmth. She had never felt much drawn towards red flannel
before, but just at that moment red flannel appeared the ideal
material for the manufacture of night-gowns. Nice, warm, dry,
beautiful red flannel! What could a girl want more?
Besides, she was not sorry to put off her talk with Mr. Priestley
till the morning. It would give her time to collect her thoughts, and
Laura felt that her thoughts needed a good deal of collecting. It was
nice of Mr. Priestley to take it so naturally for granted that he should
spend the night in the kitchen. How she had misjudged that
blameless man!
“And I wonder if the landlady could run to a dressing-gown?”
said the blameless man, gazing thoughtfully at the now empty
handcuff dangling from his left wrist. It wore something of a wistful
air. So did Mr. Priestley.
“I’ll ask her,” Laura said, jumping to her feet. She went to the
door and made the noises of a person requiring the presence of her
landlady, while Mr. Priestley hastily tucked his handcuff up his coat-
sleeve.
The landlady was enchanted with the idea of producing
dressing-gowns. She produced two, one with pride and one with
apologies. The first was of blue flannel trimmed with white lace; the
other was of fairly pink flannel trimmed with fairly white lace. Her
husband, it appeared, dispensed with such formalities as dressing-
gowns.
By common female consent the pink dressing-gown was allotted
to Mr. Priestley. He clutched it, and snatched up his night-shirt.
“I shall be back, my dear,” he said with dignity, “in about five
minutes.” He had not the faintest notion how long a girl takes to get
herself out of wet clothes and into a red flannel night-gown, but five
minutes seemed a liberal estimate.
“Lor’, sir,” remarked the landlady with frank astonishment,
“you’re not going somewhere else to change your clothes, surely?
Not after I’ve lighted this fire for you and all?”
“Five minutes!” squeaked Laura at the same time. “But—but
you’re not coming back here, are you?”
Mr. Priestley looked from one to the other uneasily. The landlady
eyed them both with undisguised surprise. Laura, realising that she
had not said quite the right thing so far as the landlady was
concerned, began to blush gently, swore silently at herself for doing
so, and blushed hotly. The landlady’s kindly eye grew less kindly; it
clouded with suspicion. The demeanour of either Laura or Mr.
Priestley at that moment would have roused suspicion in a blind
woman; their very silence was eloquent.
“I suppose,” said the landlady very slowly, “that you two are
married, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Really!” spluttered Mr. Priestley, trying hard to simulate anger.
“Really, this is preposterous. I won’t——”
“Seeing,” pursued the landlady in the same tones, her eyes now
glued to Laura’s left hand, “seeing, I mean, as the lady isn’t wearing
no ring nor anything!”
This was not true. The modern girl does not wear very much,
but she does wear something. Laura was wearing several things,
each damper than the others.
A hundred despairing schemes flitted through Mr. Priestley’s
mind. Now that the handcuffs were off, there was no need for them
to pretend they were married. Should he say they were brother and
sister? But then that would look suspicious, and real suspicion was
the very last thing they wanted to arouse. There would certainly be
an account of the crime in the next morning’s papers, and then if
their behaviour gave the landlady any inkling that——
Laura’s laugh interrupted his frenzied thoughts. “I see,” said
Laura quite naturally, “that we shall have to tell you the truth. No,
we’re not——”
What Laura was going to say was never revealed, for with a
despairing cry Mr. Priestley flung himself against this piece of
suicidal short-sightedness. “No!” said Mr. Priestley loudly. “No, we
weren’t married—at this time yesterday. Now we are. You’re right,
my darling,” he went on rapidly, with the resource of desperation, “we
must tell Mrs. Er-er-h’rrm the truth. We’ve eloped! We—er—we were
married at a registry office this afternoon, with—with a key, you
know. Not even time to buy the ring. Oh, quite on the spur of the
moment, it all was. Ha, Ha! Er—ha, ha!” He laughed without mirth,
and waited breathlessly.
“Well, there now!” exclaimed the landlady, her clouds completely
dispersed. “Well, isn’t that romantic? With a key, now! I’ve heard tell
of that before. Well, well! Eloped, did you say? Now, that is nice. You
know, I thought there was something, I did. Fancy that! I always was
a one for romance, meself. Of course you go down to the kitchen
then, sir. You’ll find it nice and warm in there and when you come up
again in ten minutes I’ll have your lady all tucked up in bed and dry
and warm as toast for you.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Priestley wanly, taking some pains to
avoid his lady’s eye.
“The poor lamb!” continued the landlady fondly, eyeing that now
fuming young woman with delighted fondness. “Catching her death
of cold, and all on account of shyness, as you might say. I used to
feel like that once with my Will, I remember, but bless you, miss—or
—mum, I should say—you’ll soon grow out of that.”
“Indeed?” said the lamb coldly. It was a very cold lamb.
“I think I’ll be getting downstairs, d-dearest,” mumbled Mr.
Priestley, intercepting a most unlamblike glance. “Er—so long.”
“Wait a minute, sir,” put in the landlady. “I know the very thing—
you must have a glass of my elderberry wine first. I’ll get some this
very minute. That’ll stop you catching cold, both of you. Bless me,
why didn’t I think of that before? Never mind, I’ll have it up in a
minute.” She whisked out of the room and shut the door behind her.
The lamb turned irately upon its good shepherd. “Why on earth
did you butt in with that absurd story? I’d just thought of a splendid
way of breaking the news to her that we aren’t married.”
“Yes, and ruining everything!” retorted Mr. Priestley, stung to
annoyance once more. In brief, snappy sentences he showed this
obtuse young woman exactly why it was necessary for the landlady
to continue in her delusion.
His argument was unanswerable. Without giving her whole case
away Laura was unable to pursue that particular line. Woman-like,
she instantly directed her irritation into a fresh channel.
“Well, now you can hardly sleep in the kitchen,” she snapped.
“Where do you imagine you’re going to sleep, I’d like to know?”
“Where I always did,” Mr. Priestley snapped back. “In here.”
Laura looked at him with wide eyes. “Don’t be absurd, please.
That’s out of the question.”
 “Anything else is out of the question,” Mr. Priestley said angrily.
“It’s you who are being absurd. What you don’t seem to understand
is that this is a question of life or death.”
Once again Laura was up against a brick wall. “Well, anyhow,
you’re not going to sleep in here. Kindly get that out of your head
once and for all. As soon as you’ve gone I shall lock the door.”
“In that case,” said Mr. Priestley grimly, “I shall break it in.”
They looked at each other stormily.
Upon this Pleasing domestic scene the landlady returned.
The constraint in the atmosphere was obvious, but the landlady
did not mind that. Quite natural, most excitingly natural, in the
circumstances. She dispensed elderberry wine with a generous
hand. The occasion called for a generous hand, and the landlady did
not fail to respond. Her hand was more than generous; it was
prodigal.
“My best respex,” said the landlady happily, raising her tumbler,
unlike the other tumblers only a quarter full.
“Uh-huh!” replied Mr. Priestley, with a brave attempt at a smile,
and raised his tumbler. Mr. Priestley, as we have already seen, had a
Palate. Elderberry-wine does not harmonise with a Palate. Life
seemed very bleak at that moment to Mr. Priestley.
He swallowed three large gulps like the gentleman he was, then
set his half-empty tumbler down. At precisely the same moment, with
an astringent face, Laura was setting her tumbler down. Instantly the
landlady pounced on them and re-filled them to the brim.
“That’ll put you as right as rain,” she announced.
Mr. Priestley looked at her with deepened gloom. “It was very
nice,” he lied manfully. “Very nice indeed. But I think I won’t have any
more, really.”
“And catch your deathacold, sir, instead?” retorted the landlady.
“No, you drink that up, and you won’t have to worry about colds.”
“I don’t think I will, really,” Mr. Priestley wriggled. “I’ll be getting
along now and——”
“If I were you, mum,” the landlady informed Laura, “I should
make him. Mark my words, you’ll have him on your hands with the
influenza if you don’t.”
 “I think you’re quite right,” Laura agreed, a malicious twinkle in
her eye. “Drink it up at once, darling!”
Mr. Priestley gazed at her with mute appeal.
“If I were you, mum,” the landlady added, “I wouldn’t let him go
down to change ’is clothes till he had drunk it.”
“Darling,” said Laura, “you don’t go down to change your clothes
till you have drunk it.”
There was no real reason why Mr. Priestley should not have
said loudly: “Bosh!” and walked out of the room. But he didn’t. He
drank up his elderberry wine.
Then he walked sadly to the door. Once he had a Palate….
“Half a minute, sir,” remarked the landlady. “Your good lady
hasn’t drunk up hers yet.”
Mr. Priestley stopped short in his tracks.
“If I were you, sir,” observed the landlady with much enjoyment,
“I should make her drink it. You’ll have her on your hands for a week
with the influenza if you don’t, you mark my words.”
“Darling,” said Mr. Priestley in italics, advancing towards his
adopted wife, “drink up your wine!”
“I don’t think I will, really,” Laura murmured, backing uneasily, “I
—I’ve had enough.”
“I’m not going out of this room till you do,” said Mr. Priestley with
triumph.
The battle of wills lasted only two minutes, but two minutes can
seem a very long time. At the end of it, with a slightly dazed look in
her eyes, Laura drank up her elderberry wine. Laura had not had
very much practice in doing what she was told, and it did not come
easily to her.
Then Mr. Priestley went downstairs.
The landlady watched him go, carrying as he did with him three-
quarters of a pint of her elderberry wine, with a triumphant eye. She
felt that she had done her duty, and not only as an anti-influenza
specialist; she felt that this couple would be grateful to her the next
morning, and not only because their noses would not be streaming.
The landlady had brought seven children into the world in her time,
and she was an expert in many things beside influenza.
In the traditional way she proceeded to put the bride to bed.
 Going downstairs with that uneasy young woman’s wet clothes,
she found the groom hovering nervously. With words of homely
encouragement she sent him flying upstairs with cheeks as red as
his lady’s night-gown.
Mr. Priestley was proving himself to be a man of singular
resolution. There were few things in this world that he wanted to do
less than turn the key on the inside of that bedroom door; yet he
knew the key must be turned. He turned it.
From the centre of the pillow in the large bed a small face,
framed in sheet, regarded him with ill-concealed alarm. Even the
sight of Mr. Priestley swathed in his pink flannel and lace appeared
to bring it no joy. Two round eyes followed his every movement, and
as he advanced towards the bed the sheet that framed the face took
on a tense appearance beside either cheek, as if two small hands
were gripping it convulsively. The face did not speak, for the simple
reason that its owner was totally incapable of uttering a word. It is
very difficult to inaugurate a chatty conversation when your throat
has gone quite dry and your tongue has apparently affixed itself
irrevocably to the roof of your mouth.
Carrying his pink flannel with the dignity of a Roman in his toga,
Mr. Priestley halted beside the bed and stared down into the silent
face with a look that was almost grim. “And now, young woman,” he
said, in a voice which matched his look only too well, “I want an
explanation, if you please.”
Reader, have you ever drunk home-made elderberry wine? Not
a pale imitation, I mean, but the real, genuine, honest article? Have
you gone still further and imbibed a full three-quarters of a pint of it?
For, if you have, there is no need for me to explain. However, in case
your life has been empty and vain, I will point out that home-made
elderberry wine (the real, honest stuff) does practically nothing for
about a quarter of an hour. During that period it just sits and
ruminates. Then it makes up for lost time.
Suddenly the sheet on either side of Laura’s face relaxed. She
smiled. “Yes, I expect you do,” she agreed.
Mr. Priestley smiled too. “I certainly do.”
Laura laughed. “I’ve been wondering when you were going to
ask for one.”
 Mr. Priestley laughed too. In the space of a few seconds the
whole thing seemed to have taken on a completely different aspect.
It was not a tragedy at all; it was—yes, utterly incredible but perfectly
true—really quite funny!
Laura seemed to find it funny too. Her laugh degenerated into a
giggle.
Mr. Priestley sat down on the bed. “Of course, you know I’m not
that man Mullins,” he stated rather than asked. How very obtuse of
him never to have realised that before! Of course she knew it. “When
did you begin to find out?”
“I knew all the time,” giggled Laura. “Oh, dear, this is ridiculous,
isn’t it?”
“Quite absurd,” grinned Mr. Priestley. “I’m afraid, by the way, that
I must have been rather a handicap to you this evening.”
“Not at all,” said Laura politely.
“You see, I’ve never associated with professional criminals
before. My name is——” A glimmer of sense returned to Mr.
Priestley, and he withheld that confidence.
Laura was giggling again. “You know, I’m not really a
professional criminal,” she volunteered. “I’m quite honest. Is that a
dreadful disappointment?”
Mr. Priestley beamed. “No, are you really? That is a great relief,
a very great relief. That’s really a load off my mind. But in that case—
well, would you mind telling me the real truth about this evening?”
But Laura, though disposed to giggle, had not quite lost her
head in her newly awakened sense of humour. She hastily searched
her mind for a tale that should relieve Mr. Priestley’s mind as much
as possible, without betraying her trust.
“Well,” she said slowly, “what I told you first of all was near
enough. I knew you weren’t Mullins, of course, but I was desperately
anxious for some one to help me, so I just pretended to think you
were. Besides,” she added severely, “I thought it would serve you
right.”
“I deserved it, I know,” agreed Mr. Priestley, but with no signs of
contrition.
“That man has got some compromising letters of mine. He may
have some miniatures too; I don’t know anything about that. But you