what I could in the way of soothing Biffy’s last moments, and the poor old lad turned a glowing face in my direction.
“Chiswick, 60873,” he bellowed in a voice charged with emotion. “Write it down, Bertie, or I shall forget it. Chiswick, 60873. Her telephone number.”
And then he disappeared, accompanied by about eleven thousand sightseers, and a voice spoke at my elbow.
“ Mr. Wooster! What—what—what is the meaning of this?”
Sir Roderick, with bigger eyebrows than ever, was standing at my side.
“It’s all right,” I said. “Poor old Biffy’s only gone off his crumpet.”
He tottered.
“What?”
“Had a sort of fit or seizure, you know.”
“Another!” Sir Roderick drew a deep breath. “And this is the man I was