“Why on earth should I be alarmed?”
“Well, you know,” said Lord Caterham apologetically, “Melrose is a bit old-fashioned.”
“Twelve o’clock,” said Bundle. “Good. I shall be here, if I’m still alive.”
“Have you any reason to anticipate not being alive?”
“One never knows,” said Bundle. “The strain of modern life—as the newspapers say.”
“Which reminds me that George Lomax asked me to come over to the Abbey next week. I refused, of course.”
“Quite right,” said Bundle. “We don’t want you mixed up in any funny business.”
“Is there going to be any funny business?” asked Lord Caterham with a sudden awakening of interest.
“Well—warning letters and all that, you know,” said Bundle.
“Perhaps George is going to be assassinated,” said Lord Caterham hopefully. “What do you think, Bundle—perhaps I’d better go after all.”
“You curb your bloodthirsty instincts and stay quietly at home,” said Bundle. “I’m going to talk to Mrs. Howell.”
Mrs. Howell was the housekeeper, that dignified, creaking lady who had struck such terror to the heart of Lady Coote. She had no terrors for Bundle, whom, indeed, she always called Miss Bundle, a relic of the days when Bundle had stayed at Chimneys, a long-legged, impish child, before her father had succeeded to the title.
“Now, Howelly,” said Bundle, “let’s have a cup of rich cocoa together, and let me hear all the household news.”