“Bertie,” said Bingo, having sat down on the bed and diffused silent gloom for a moment, “how is Jeeves’s brain these days?”

“Fairly strong on the wing, I fancy. How is the grey matter, Jeeves? Surging about pretty freely?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank Heaven for that,” said young Bingo, “for I require your soundest counsel. Unless right-thinking people take strong steps through the proper channels, my name will be mud.”

“What’s wrong, old thing?” I asked, sympathetically.

Bingo plucked at the coverlet.