“Why not do it up in a nice little parcel and send it by post?”
“Sounds a damn sight more sensible, I agree.”
“Of course,” continued Anthony, “I know that kings and queens and Government officials are prevented by etiquette from doing anything in a simple, straightforward fashion. Hence king’s messengers and all that. In medieval days you gave a fellow a signet ring as a sort of Open Sesame. ‘The King’s Ring! Pass, my Lord!’ And usually it was the other fellow who had stolen it. I always wonder why some bright lad never hit on the expedient of copying the ring—making a dozen or so, and selling them at a hundred ducats apiece. They seem to have had no initiative in the Middle Ages.”
Jimmy yawned.
“My remarks on the Middle Ages don’t seem to amuse you. Let us get back to Count Stylptitch. From France to England via Africa seems a bit thick even for a diplomatic personage. If he merely wanted to ensure that you should get a thousand pounds he could have left it you in his will. Thank God neither you nor I are too proud to accept a legacy! Stylptitch must have been balmy.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
Anthony frowned and continued his pacing.
“Have you read the thing at all?” he asked suddenly.
“Read what?”
“The manuscript.”
“Good Lord, no. What do you think I want to read a thing of that kind for?”