Jimmy grinned.

“I noticed your manners this morning.”

“The devil you did.”

Anthony rose and paced up and down the room. His brow was slightly wrinkled, and it was some minutes before he spoke.

“Jimmy,” he said at last. “Stylptitch died in Paris. What’s the point of sending a manuscript from Paris to London via Africa?”

Jimmy shook his head helplessly.

“I don’t know.”

“Why not do it up in a nice little parcel and send it by post?”

“Sounds a damn sight more sensible, I agree.”