“It’s an extraordinary thing about these biscuits,” said Mr. Bateman. “Do you mind if I just—?”
“Certainly, laddie, look for yourself.”
Mr. Bateman strode across the room, opened the biscuit box and stared at its emptiness.
“Very remiss,” he murmured. “Well, goodnight.”
He withdrew. Jimmy sat on the edge of his bed listening for a minute.
“That was a narrow shave,” he murmured to himself. “Suspicious sort of chap, Pongo. Never seems to sleep. Nasty habit of his prowling around with a revolver.”
He got up and opened one of the drawers of the dressing-table. Beneath an assortment of ties lay a pile of biscuits.
“There’s nothing for it,” said Jimmy. “I shall have to eat all the damned things. Ten to one, Pongo will come prowling round in the morning.”
With a sigh, he settled down to a meal of biscuits for which he had no inclination whatever.