The Greatest Works of P. G. Wodehouse. P. G. Wodehouse
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course, in a way I see his point,” said Claude. “I suppose the solution of the problem would be to buy a couple of disguises.”
“My dear old chap!” said Eustace, looking at him with admiration. “The brightest idea on record. Not your own, surely?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, it was Bertie who put it into my head.”
“Me!”
“You were telling me the other day about old Bingo Little and the beard he bought when he didn’t want his uncle to recognize him.”
“If you think I’m going to have you two excrescences popping in and out of my flat in beards . . .”
“Something in that,” agreed Eustace. “We’ll make it whiskers, then.”
“And false noses,” said Claude.
“And, as you say, false noses. Right-o, then, Bertie, old chap, that’s a load off your mind. We don’t want to be any trouble to you while we’re paying you this little visit.”
And when I went buzzing round to Jeeves for consolation, all he would say was something about young blood. No sympathy.
“Very good, Jeeves,” I said. “I shall go for a walk in the Park. Kindly put me out the Old Etonian spats.”
“Very good, sir.”
It must have been a couple of days after that that Marion Wardour rolled in at about the hour of tea. She looked warily round the room before sitting down.
“Your cousins not at home, Bertie?” she said.
“No, thank goodness.”
“Then I’ll tell you where they are. They’re in my sitting room, glaring at each other from opposite corners, waiting for me to come in. Bertie, this has got to stop.”
“You’re seeing a good deal of them, are you?”
Jeeves came in with the tea but the poor girl was so worked up that she didn’t wait for him to pop off before going on with her complaint. She had an absolutely hunted air, poor thing.
“I can’t move a step without tripping over one or both of them,” she said. “Generally both. They’ve taken to calling together, and they just settle down grimly and try to sit each other out. It’s wearing me to a shadow.”
“I know,” I said sympathetically. “I know.”
“Well, what’s to be done?”
“It beats me. Couldn’t you tell your maid to say you are not at home?”
She shuddered slightly.
“I tried that once. They camped on the stairs and I couldn’t get out all the afternoon. And I had a lot of particularly important engagements. I wish you would persuade them to go to South Africa, where they seem to be wanted.”
“You must have made the dickens of an impression on them.”
“I should say I have. They’ve started giving me presents now. At least, Claude has. He insisted on my accepting this cigarette case last night. Came round to the theater and wouldn’t go away till I took it. It’s not a bad one, I must say.”
It wasn’t. It was a distinctly fruity concern in gold with a diamond stuck in the middle. And the rummy thing was that I had a notion I’d seen something very like it before somewhere. How the deuce Claude had been able to dig up the cash to buy a thing like that was more than I could imagine.
Next day was a Wednesday, and as the object of their devotion had a matinée the twins were, so to speak, off duty. Claude had gone with his whiskers on to Hurst Park, and Eustace and I were in the flat, talking. At least, he was talking and I was wishing he would go.
“The love of a good woman, Bertie,” he was saying, “must be a wonderful thing. Sometimes I think . . . Good Lord! What’s that?”
The front door had opened and from out in the hall there came the sound of Aunt Agatha’s voice asking if I was in. Aunt Agatha has one of those high, penetrating voices, but this was the first time I’d ever been thankful for it. There was just about two seconds to clear the way for her, but it was long enough for Eustace to dive under the sofa. His last shoe had just disappeared when she came in.
She had a worried look. It seemed to me about this time that everybody had.
“Bertie,” she said, “what are your immediate plans?”
“How do you mean? I’m dining tonight with . . .”
“No, no. I don’t mean tonight. Are you busy for the next few days? But of course you are not,” she went on, not waiting for me to answer. “You never have anything to do. Your whole life is spent in idle . . . but we can go into that later. What I came for this afternoon was to tell you that I wish you to go with your poor Uncle George to Harrogate for a few weeks. The sooner you can start, the better.”
This appeared to me to approximate so closely to the frozen limit that I uttered a yelp of protest. Uncle George is all right, but he won’t do. I was trying to say as much when she waved me down.
“If you are not entirely heartless, Bertie, you will do as I ask you. Your poor Uncle George has had a severe shock.”
“What, another!”
“He feels that only complete rest and careful medical attendance can restore his nervous system to its normal poise. It seems that in the past he has derived benefit from taking the water at Harrogate, and he wishes to go there now. We do not think he ought to be alone, so I wish you to accompany him.”
“But I say!”
“Bertie!”
There was a lull in the conversation.
“What shock has he had?” I asked.
“Between ourselves,” said Aunt Agatha, lowering her voice in an impressive manner, “I incline to think that the whole affair was the outcome of an over-excited imagination. You are one of the family, Bertie, and I can speak freely to you. You know as well as I do that your poor Uncle George has for many years not been a . . . he has—er—developed a habit of . . . how shall I put it?”
“Shifting it a bit?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mopping up the stuff to some extent?”
“I dislike your way of putting it exceedingly, but I must confess that he has not been perhaps as temperate as he should. He is highly strung and . . . well, the fact is that he has had a shock.”
“Yes, but what?”
“That is what it is so hard to induce him to explain with any precision. With all his good points, your poor Uncle George is apt to become incoherent when strongly moved. So far as I could gather, he appears to have been the victim of a burglary.”
“Burglary!”
“He says that a strange man with whiskers and a peculiar nose entered his rooms in Jermyn Street during his absence and stole some of his property. He says that he came back and found the man in his sitting room. He immediately rushed out of the room and disappeared.”
“Uncle George?”
“No, the man. And, according to your Uncle George, he had stolen a valuable cigarette case. But as I say, I am inclined to think that the whole thing was imagination. He has not been himself since the day when he fancied that he saw Eustace in the street . . . So I should like you, Bertie, to be prepared to start for Harrogate with him not later than Saturday.”
She popped off, and Eustace crawled out from under the sofa. The blighter was strongly moved. So was I, for the matter of that. The idea of several weeks with Uncle George at Harrogate seemed to make everything go black.
“So that’s where he got that cigarette