He began to nose about. He pulled out drawer after drawer, pottering around like an old bloodhound, and babbling from time to time about Berkeley and his cigarette-case in a way that struck me as perfectly ghastly. I just stood there, losing weight every moment.

Then he came to the drawer where the parcel was.

“This appears to be locked,” he said, rattling the handle.

“Yes; I shouldn’t bother about that one. It⁠—it’s⁠—er⁠—locked, and all that sort of thing.”

“You have not the key?”

A soft, respectful voice spoke behind me.

“I fancy, sir, that this must be the key you require. It was in the pocket of your evening trousers.”

It was Jeeves. He had shimmered in, carrying my evening things, and was standing there holding out the key. I could have massacred the man.