"Seems to be the chief industry of the place. Do you mean to say you
don't remember that old maiden lady being murdered by her own
gardener and buried in the fowl-run? You women! you take no interest
in public affairs."
"I do remember something about it, now you mention it, dear," the
good woman would confess. "Always seems such an innocent type of
man, a gardener."
"Seems to be a special breed of them at Ditchley-in-the-Marsh," he
answers. "Here again last Monday," he continues, reading with
growing interest. "Almost the same case--even to the pruning knife.
Yes, hanged if he doesn't!--buries her in the fowl-run. This is most
extraordinary."
"It must be the imitative instinct asserting itself," suggests the
good woman. "As you, dear, have so often pointed out, one crime
makes another."
"I have always said so," he agrees; "it has always been a theory of
mine."
He folds the paper over. "Dull dogs, these political chaps!" he
says. "Here's the Duke of Devonshire, speaking last night at
Hackney, begins by telling a funny story he says he has just heard
about a parrot. Why, it's the same story somebody told a month ago;
I remember reading it. Yes--upon my soul--word for word, I'd swear
to it. Shows you the sort of men we're governed by."
"You can't expect everyone, dear, to possess your repertoire," the
good woman remarks.
"Needn't say he's just heard it that afternoon, anyhow," responds the
good man.
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