“Well, why didn’t you call a taxi?”
“I suddenly discovered I’d left all my money at my hotel.”
“You could have taken a cab and paid it when you got to the hotel.”
“Yes, but suddenly I discovered, dash it, that I’d forgotten its name.”
And there in a nutshell you have Charles Edward Biffen. As vague and woolen-headed a blighter as ever bit a sandwich. Goodness knows—and my Aunt Agatha will bear me out in this—I’m no mastermind myself; but compared with Biffy I’m one of the great thinkers of all time.
“I’d give a shilling,” said Biffy, wistfully, “to know the name of that hotel.”
“You can owe it me. Hotel Avenida, Rue du Colisée.”
“Bertie! This is uncanny. How the deuce did you know?”
“That was the address you left with Jeeves this morning.”
“So it was. I had forgotten.”
“Well, come along and have a drink, and then I’ll put you in a cab and send you home. I’m engaged for lunch, but I’ve plenty of time.”
We drifted to one of the eleven cafés which jostled each other along the street and I ordered restoratives.
“What on earth are you doing in Paris?” I asked.
“Bertie, old man,” said Biffy, solemnly, “I came here to try and forget.”
“Well, you’ve certainly succeeded.”
“You don’t understand. The fact is, Bertie, old lad, my heart is broken. I’ll tell you the whole story.”