“The shrubbery?”
“The beard, my boy. Worth every penny I paid for it. Defies detection. Of course, it’s a nuisance having people shouting ‘Beaver!’ at you all the time, but one’s got to put up with that.”
I goggled at him.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a long story. Have a martini or a small gore-and-soda, and I’ll tell you all about it. Before we start, give me your honest opinion. Isn’t she the most wonderful girl you ever saw in your puff?”
He had produced a photograph from somewhere, like a conjurer taking a rabbit out of a hat, and was waving it in front of me. It appeared to be a female of sorts, all eyes and teeth.
“Oh, Great Scott!” I said. “Don’t tell me you’re in love again.”
He seemed aggrieved.
“What do you mean—again?”
“Well, to my certain knowledge you’ve been in love with at least half a dozen girls since the spring, and it’s only July now. There was that waitress and Honoria Glossop and—”
“Oh, tush! Not to say pish! Those girls? Mere passing fancies. This is the real thing.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“On top of a bus. Her name is Charlotte Corday Rowbotham.”
“My God!”