“My great-uncle George’s maxim,” I added, as an afterthought. “Great-aunt Jane’s husband, you know. He made knobs for brass beds.”

I doubt if Chichester-Pettigrew had ever been ragged before. He didn’t like it at all.

“I think you would be wise to alter your tone, young lady.”

I did not reply, but yawned⁠—a delicate little yawn that hinted at intense boredom.

“What the devil⁠—” he began forcibly.

I interrupted him.

“I can assure you it’s no good shouting at me. We are only wasting time here. I have no intention of talking with underlings. You will save a lot of time and annoyance by taking me straight to Sir Eustace Pedler.”

“To⁠ ⁠…”