“Wait here, Jeeves.”

“Very good, sir. The head gardener was informing me this morning, sir, that one of the swans had recently nested on this island.”

“This is no time for natural history gossip, Jeeves,” I said, a little severely, for the rain was coming down harder than ever and the Wooster trouser-legs were already considerably moistened.

“Very good, sir.”

I pushed my way through the bushes. The going was sticky and took about eight and elevenpence off the value of my Sure-Grip tennis shoes in the first two yards: but I persevered and presently came out in the open and found myself in a sort of clearing facing the Octagon.