“There’s only one thing to do,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Leave it to Jeeves.”
And I rang the bell.
“Sir?” said Jeeves, kind of manifesting himself. One of the rummy
things about Jeeves is that, unless you watch like a hawk, you very
seldom see him come into a room. He’s like one of those weird chappies
in India who dissolve themselves into thin air and nip through space in
a sort of disembodied way and assemble the parts again just where they
want them. I’ve got a cousin who’s what they call a Theosophist, and he
says he’s often nearly worked the thing himself, but couldn’t quite
bring it off, probably owing to having fed in his boyhood on the flesh
of animals slain in anger and pie.
The moment I saw the man standing there, registering respectful
attention, a weight seemed to roll off my mind. I felt like a lost
child who spots his father in the offing. There was something about him
that gave me confidence.
Jeeves is a tallish man, with one of those dark, shrewd faces. His eye
gleams with the light of pure intelligence.
“Jeeves, we want your advice.”
“Very good, sir.”