The Code of the Woosters / Фамильная честь Вустеров. Пелам Гренвилл Вудхаус

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      “I can’t see any hallmark.”

      “Are you blind? Here, take it outside in the street. It’s lighter there.”

      “Right,” I said, and started for the door, like a connoisseur a bit bored at having his time wasted. I had only taken a couple of steps when I tripped over[37] the cat, and shot out of the door like someone wanted by the police. The cow-creamer flew from my hands, and it was a lucky thing that I happened to barge into a fellow citizen outside. Well, not absolutely lucky, as a matter of fact, for it turned out to be Sir Watkyn Bassett. He stood there goggling at me with horror and indignation behind the pince-nez. First, bag-snatching; then umbrella-pinching; and now this. It was the last straw[38].

      “Call a policeman, Roderick!” he cried.

      The Dictator bawled: “Police!”

      “Police!” yipped old Bassett, up in the tenor clef.

      “Police!” roared the Dictator, taking the bass. And a moment later something large loomed up in the fog and said: “What’s all this?”

      Well, I didn’t want to stick around and explain. I picked up the feet and was gone like the wind. A voice shouted “Stop!” but of course I didn’t. I legged it down byways and along side streets, and eventually fetched up somewhere in the neighbourhood of Sloane Square[39]. There I got aboard a cab and started back to civilization.

      My original intention was to drive to the Drones and get a bite of lunch there, but I hadn’t gone far when I realized that I wasn’t equal to it. Changing my strategy, I told the man to take me to the nearest Turkish bath.

      I returned to the flat late. It was, indeed, practically with a merry tra-la-la on my lips that I made for the sitting room. And the next I saw a pile of telegrams on the table.

      Two

      I had had the idea at first glance that there were about twenty of the telegrams, but a closer scrutiny revealed only three. They all bore the same signature. They ran as follows:

      The first:

      The second:

      And the third:

      Something had whispered to me on seeing those envelopes that here we had a big trouble, and here we had.

      The sound of the familiar footsteps had brought Jeeves. A glance was enough to tell him that all was not well with the employer.

      “Are you ill, sir?” he enquired solicitously.

      I sank into a chair.

      “Not ill, Jeeves, but I am going to die. Read these.”

      He read the telegrams.

      “Most disturbing, sir.” His voice was grave. I could see that he hadn’t missed the gist. The sinister idea of those telegrams was as clear to him as it was to me. There was no need to explain to him why I now lighted a cigarette with a visible effort.

      “What do you suppose has happened, Jeeves?”

      “It is difficult to hazard a conjecture, sir.”

      “The wedding may be scratched, he says. Why? That is what I ask myself. ”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “And I have no doubt that that is what you ask yourself?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “A difficult case, Jeeves.”

      “Extremely difficult, sir.”

      “What shall I do, Jeeves?”

      “I think it would be best to proceed to Totleigh Towers, sir.”

      “But how can I? Old Bassett would drive me out the moment I arrived.”

      “Possibly if you were to telegraph to Mr. Fink-Nottle, sir, explaining your difficulty, he might have some solution to suggest.”

      This seemed reasonable. I hastened out to the post office, and wired as follows:

      The answer to this came during dinner:

      And in the morning, I received three telegrams. The first ran:

      The second:

      The third: