of little restaurant which I go to when I don’t feel inclined for the bright lights, I found Muriel Singer there, sitting by herself at a table near the door. Corky, I took it, was out telephoning. I went up and passed the time of day.
“Well, well, well, what?” I said.
“Why, Mr. Wooster! How do you do?”
“Corky around?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re waiting for Corky, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I didn’t understand. No, I’m not waiting for him.”
It seemed to me that there was a sort of something in her voice, a kind of thingummy, you know.
“I say, you haven’t had a row with Corky, have you?”
“A row?”
“A spat, don’t you know—little misunderstanding—faults on both sides—er—and all that sort of thing.”
“Why, whatever makes you think that?”
“Oh,