“A letter? What sort of a letter?”
“A letter from Ronny Devereux’s executors.”
“Good lord! After all this time!”
“It seems he left instructions. If he was to die suddenly, a certain sealed envelope was to be sent to me exactly a fortnight after his death.”
“And they’ve sent it to you?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve opened it?”
“Yes.”
“Well—what did it say?”
Bill turned a glance upon him, such a strange and uncertain one that Jimmy was startled.
“Look here,” he said. “Pull yourself together, old man. It seems to have knocked the wind out of you, whatever it is. Have a drink.”
He poured out a stiff whisky and soda and brought it over to Bill, who took it obediently. His face still bore the same dazed expression.
“It’s what’s in the letter,” he said. “I simply can’t believe it, that’s all.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Jimmy. “You must get into the habit of believing six impossible things before breakfast. I do it regularly. Now then, let’s hear all about it. Wait a minute.”
He went outside.
“Stevens!”