“I have come to you, Mr. Blunt—By the way, it is Mr. Blunt himself to whom I am speaking, is it not?”
“Certainly,” said Tommy. “I am Theodore Blunt, the head of the firm.”
“I always prefer to deal with heads of departments,” said Mr. Wilmott. “It is more satisfactory in every way. As I was about to say, Mr. Blunt, this business gets my goat. There’s nothing in it to trouble Scotland Yard about—I’m not a penny the worse in any way, and it’s probably all due to a simple mistake. But all the same, I don’t see just how that mistake arose. There’s nothing criminal in it, I daresay, but I’d like just to get the thing straightened out. It makes me mad not to see the why and wherefore of a thing.”
“Absolutely,” said Tommy.
Mr. Wilmott went on. He was slow and given to much detail. At last Tommy managed to get a word in.
“Quite so,” he said, “the position is this. You arrived by the liner Nomadic a week ago. In some way your kitbag and the kitbag of another gentleman, Mr. Ralph Westerham whose initials are the same as yours, got mixed up. You took Mr. Westerham’s kitbag, and he took yours. Mr. Westerham discovered the mistake immediately, sent round your kitbag to the Embassy, and took away his own. Am I right so far?”
“That is precisely what occurred. The two bags must have been practically identical, and with the initials R. W. being the same in both cases, it is not difficult to understand that an error might have been made. I myself was not aware of what had happened until my valet informed me of the mistake, and that Mr. Westerham—he is a Senator, and a man for whom I have a great admiration—had sent round for his bag and returned mine.”
“Then I don’t see—”