of the fingers for me.”
“Dear old soul, I love you devotedly!”
“Then will you or will you not—”
“Oh, all right,” I said. “All right! All right! All right!”
And then I tottered forth to think it over.
I met Jeeves in the passage just outside.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I was endeavouring to find you.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I felt that I should tell you, sir, that somebody has been putting black polish on our brown walking shoes.”
“What! Who? Why?”
“I could not say, sir.”
“Can anything be done with them?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Damn!”
“Very good, sir.”
I’ve often wondered since then how these murderer fellows manage to keep in shape while they’re contemplating their next effort. I had a