-11-
The makings were neatly laid out on a side-table, and to pour into a
glass an inch or so of the raw spirit and shoosh some soda-water on
top of it was with me the work of a moment. This done, I retired to
an arm-chair and put my feet up, sipping the mixture with carefree
enjoyment, rather like Caesar having one in his tent the day he
overcame the Nervii.
As I let the mind dwell on what must even now be taking place in that
peaceful garden, I felt bucked and uplifted. Though never for an
instant faltering in my opinion that Augustus Fink-Nottle was Nature’s
final word in cloth-headed guffins, I liked the man, wished him well,
and could not have felt more deeply involved in the success of his
wooing if I, and not he, had been under the ether.
The thought that by this time he might quite easily have completed the
preliminary _pourparlers_ and be deep in an informal discussion of
honeymoon plans was very pleasant to me.
Of course, considering the sort of girl Madeline Bassett was--stars and
rabbits and all that, I mean--you might say that a sober sadness would
have been more fitting. But in these matters you have got to realize
that tastes differ. The impulse of right-thinking men might be to run a
mile when they saw the Bassett, but for some reason she appealed to the
deeps in Gussie, so that was that.
I had reached this point in my meditations, when I was aroused by the
sound of the door opening. Somebody came in and started moving like a
leopard toward the side-table and, lowering the feet, I perceived that
it was Tuppy Glossop.
The sight of him gave me a momentary twinge of remorse, reminding me,
as it did, that in the excitement of getting Gussie fixed up I had
rather forgotten about this other client. It is often that way when
you’re trying to run two cases at once.
However, Gussie now being off my mind, I was prepared to devote my
whole attention to the Glossop problem.
I had been much pleased by the way he had carried out the task assigned
him at the dinner-table. No easy one, I can assure you, for the
browsing and sluicing had been of the highest quality, and there had
been one dish in particular--I allude to the _nonnettes de poulet Agnès
Sorel_--which might well have broken down the most iron resolution. But
he had passed it up like a professional fasting man, and I was proud of
him.
“Oh, hullo, Tuppy,” I said, “I wanted to see you.”
He turned, snifter in hand, and it was easy to see that his privations
had tried him sorely. He was looking like a wolf on the steppes of
Russia which has seen its peasant shin up a high tree.
“Yes?” he said, rather unpleasantly. “Well, here I am.”
“Well?”
“How do you mean----well?”
“Make your report.”
“What report?”
“Have you nothing to tell me about Angela?”
“Only that she’s a blister.”