louis24

A man named Max is being informed by someone about their engagement being cancelled because they need to have dinner with their niece. The niece has a neighbor who throws kidneys over her garden and the uncle is going to give advice on how to deal with it. The neighbor may be a bit crazy or have a specific motive. The uncle does not think it is burglary. The niece's garden is being destroyed and there is annoyance from the neighbor. The uncle does not believe the neighbor is planning a burglary. Delighted! Charmed! Your usual hour, Max? Oh, I am so very sorry, Max, but I have remembered that I have an engagement. I fear I must deny myself after all. Though, strictly speaking, it is not of the least importance, but this is why I feel compelled to keep it. It is only to dine with my niece. They have gotten into an absurd doll's house of a villa at Grote Hefe, and I have promised to go there this evening. I'm afraid so, now that it is fixed. To you, Max, it will be ridiculous or incomprehensible that a third to dinner and he only a middle-aged uncle should make a straw of difference. But I know that in a bijou way it will be a little domestic event for Elsie, an added anxiety in giving the butcher in order an extra course for dinner, perhaps a careful drilling of the one diminutive maidservant. And Elsie is such a delightful little creature. Upon my soul, it would be bad to fail her now. Oh, there, besides, there is a special reason for going which, for the moment, I forgot. Elsie wishes for my advice and regard with regard to her next-door neighbor. He is an elderly man of retiring disposition, and he makes a practice of throwing in his over her garden. No, no, Max. Kidneys. Stewed. K-I-D-N-E-S. It's a little difficult to explain plausibly over a badly vibrating telephone, I admit. But that is what Elsie's letter assured me, and she adds that she is in despair. I have no further particulars, Max. It may be a solitary diurnal offering, or the sky may at times appear serene kidneys. It is a mania. The symptoms may even have become more pronounced, and the man is possibly showering beefsteaks across by this time. I will make a full inquiry and let you know. No, it did not, Max. In fact, so diffident has the mysterious phalanxeress become that no one at Fountain Cottage has been able to catch sight of him lately. Although I am told that Scamp, Elsie's terrier, betrays a very self-conscious guilt and suspiciously muddy paws every morning. That is the name of the toy villa. Yes, yes, to be sure, Max. Metrovi, the traveller, the writer, and scientist. Well, he took up spiritualism or something, didn't he? At any rate, he lived at Fountain Court, in an old redbrick house with a large neglected garden there, until his death a couple of years ago. Then, as Grote Heath had suddenly become a popular suburb with a tube railway, a land company acquired the estate, the house was razed to the ground, and in a twinkling, a colony of Noah's Ark villas took its place. Oh, there is Metrovi Road here, and Court Crescent there, and Mansion Drive, and whatnot. And, well, Elsie's little place perpetuates another landmark. Oh, he is mad, of course. I advised her to make as little fuss about it as possible, seeing that the man lives next door and might become objectionable. But I framed a note for her to send, which will probably have good effect. Well, I don't say that he is strictly a lunatic, but there is obviously a screw loose somewhere. He may carry indiscriminate benevolence toward Yorkshire terriers to irrational lengths, or he may be a food specialist with a grievance. In effect, he is mad on at least that one point. How else are we to account for the circumstances? You suggest he really may have a sane object? That I leave to you, Max. If he has a sane object, well, pray, what is it? And what is that? What else, Max? Well, whatever he wishes to achieve by it, I can tell you one thing else that he has done. He has so demoralized Scamp with his confounded kidneys, that Elsie's neatly arranged flower beds, and she took Fountain Cottage, principally on the account of an unusually large garden, are hopelessly devastated. If she keeps the dog up, the garden is invaded night and day by an army of peregrinating feline marauders that scent the booty from afar. She has gained the everlasting annoyance of an otherwise charming neighbour, Max. Can you tell me what she has achieved by that? Good heavens, Max! No, good heavens, Max! Is it possible that he is planning a burglary? No, no, they don't. Belmark is not particularly well endowed with worldly goods. In fact, between ourselves, Max, Elsie could have done much better, from a strictly social point of view. But he is a thoroughly good fellow, and idolizes her. They have no silver worth speaking of, and, well, for the rest, well, just the ordinary petty cash of a frugal young couple. It's not only that. Why should he go to the trouble, Max? And, if seen, why would he wish to do that? Well, upon my word, that's a drawing, well, upon my word, that's drawing a bow at a venture, Max. If it isn't burglary, what motive could the man have for such nocturnal perambulation? No, by God! I decline to consider the remotest possibility of that explanation. Elsie... But you know this is atrocious, Tate. But you know that this is an atrocious libel, Max. I never said such a thing. However, is it probable? Then, where are we, Max? Of course, Max, of course. I, well, as far as I was concerned, I regarded the matter as settled. You don't mind. No, that's not mine. Pleasure. What shall I say? Quite so.