that wretched young man, Bertram Wooster. What is all this nonsense about Olivers and Sipperleys?”
The prof was eyeing me with some natural surprise. So were the others. I beamed a bit weakly.
“Well, as a matter of fact—” I said.
The prof was wrestling with the situation. You could hear his brain buzzing.
“He said he was Oliver Sipperley,” he moaned.
“Come here!” bellowed Sir Roderick. “Am I to understand that you have inflicted yourself on this household under the pretence of being the nephew of an old friend?”
It seemed a pretty accurate description of the facts.
“Well—er—yes,” I said.
Sir Roderick shot an eye at me. It entered the body somewhere about the top stud, roamed