“Jeeves,” I said, “I want your help once more. I’ve just been having a painful interview with Mr. Biffen.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“It’s like this,” I said, and told him the whole thing.
It was rummy, but I could feel him freezing from the start. As a rule, when I call Jeeves into conference on one of these little problems, he’s all sympathy and bright ideas; but not today.
“I fear, sir,” he said, when I had finished, “it is hardly my place to intervene in a private matter affecting—”
“Oh, come!”
“No, sir. It would be taking a liberty.”
“Jeeves,” I said, tackling the blighter squarely, “what have you got against old Biffy?”
“I, sir?”
“Yes, you.”
“I assure you, sir!”
“Oh, well, if you don’t want to chip in and save a fellow-creature, I suppose I can’t make you. But let me tell you this. I am now going back to the sitting-room, and I am going to put in some very tense thinking. You’ll look pretty silly when I come and tell you that I’ve got Mr. Biffen out of the soup without your assistance. Extremely silly you’ll look.”
“Yes, sir. Shall I bring you a whisky-and-soda, sir?”
“No. Coffee! Strong and black. And if anybody wants to see me, tell ’em that I’m busy and can’t be disturbed.”