9–2, Dix; 6–1, Heppenstall, Dibble, Hough; 100–8 any other.
It baffled me.
“Do you understand it, Jeeves?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, I think we ought to have a look into it, anyway, what?”
“Undoubtedly, sir.”
“Right-o, then. Pack our spare dickey and a toothbrush in a neat brown-paper parcel, send a wire to Lord Wickhammersley to say we’re coming, and buy two tickets on the five-ten at Paddington tomorrow.”
The five-ten was late as usual, and everybody was dressing for dinner when I arrived at the Hall.
It was only by getting into my evening things in record time and taking the stairs to the dining room in a couple of bounds that I managed to dead-heat with the soup.
I slid into the vacant chair, and found that I was sitting next to old Wickhammersley’s youngest daughter, Cynthia.
“Oh, hallo, old thing,” I said.
Great pals we’ve always been. In fact, there was a time when I had an idea I was in love with Cynthia. However, it blew over. A dashed pretty and lively and attractive girl, mind you, but full of ideals and all that. I may be wronging her, but I have an idea that she’s the sort of girl who would want a fellow to carve out a career and whatnot. I know I’ve heard her speak favourably of Napoleon. So what with one thing and another the jolly