“Very possibly, sir.”
“But not me, Jeeves.”
“No, sir.”
I left him to brood on it.
Even the thought that I’d got to go to Harrogate with Uncle George couldn’t depress me that Saturday when I gazed about the old flat and realised that Claude and Eustace weren’t in it. They had slunk off stealthily and separately immediately after breakfast, Eustace to catch the boat-train at Waterloo, Claude to go round to the garage where I kept my car. I didn’t want any chance of the two meeting at Waterloo and changing their minds, so I had suggested to Claude that he might find it pleasanter to drive down to Southampton.
I was lying back on the old settee, gazing peacefully up at the flies on the ceiling and feeling what a wonderful world this was, when Jeeves came in with a letter.
“A messenger-boy has brought this, sir.”
I opened the envelope, and the first thing that fell out was a five-pound note.
“Great Scott!” I said. “What’s all this?”
The letter was scribbled in pencil, and was quite brief:
“ Dear Bertie —Will you give enclosed to your man, and tell him I wish I could make it more. He has saved my life. This is the first happy day I’ve had for a week.
Jeeves was standing holding out the fiver, which had fluttered to the floor.