I’ve brought back your son.”
“I see him. Peep-bo, Tootles, Dadda can see ’oo.”
The face disappeared with a jerk.
I could hear voices.
The face reappeared.
“Hi!”
I churned the gravel madly. This blighter was giving me the pip.
“Do you live here?” asked the face.
“I have taken a cottage here for a few weeks.”
“What’s your name?”
“Wooster.”
“Fancy that! Do you spell it W-o-r-c-e-s-t-e-r or W-o-o-s-t-e-r?”
“W-o-o—”
“I ask because I once knew a Miss Wooster, spelled W-o-o—”
I had had about enough of this spelling-bee.
“Will you open the door and take this child in?”
“I mustn’t open the door. This Miss Wooster that I knew married a man named Spenser. Was she any relation?”
“She is my Aunt