I don’t know when I’ve had a more juicy moment. It was one of those occasions about which I shall prattle to my grandchildren⁠—if I ever have any, which at the moment of going to press seems more or less of a hundred-to-one shot. Aunt Agatha simply deflated before my eyes. It reminded me of when I once saw some chappies letting the gas out of a balloon.

“Where⁠—where⁠—where⁠—” she gurgled.

“I got them from your friend, Miss Hemmingway.”

Even now she didn’t get it.

“From Miss Hemmingway. Miss Hemmingway ! But⁠—but how did they come into her possession?”