My flesh absolutely crept. And I’ll tell you why. One of the first things Honoria Glossop had done after we had become engaged was to tell me she didn’t like Jeeves and wanted him shot out. The realization that this girl resembled Honoria not only in body but blackness of soul made me go all faint.

“What are you reading?”

She picked up my book, and frowned again. The thing was one I had brought down from the old flat in London, to glance at in the train⁠—a fairly zippy effort in the detective line called The Trail of Blood . She turned the pages with a nasty sneer.

“I can’t understand you liking nonsense of this⁠—” she stopped suddenly. “Good gracious!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Do you know Bertie Wooster?”