"Flimsy work," she said. "Now then, Alfred, have you got a cupboard downstairs where you could shove all this glass? You have? Good. Then get a tray and start to carry it down at once. Hurry—there's no time to lose."
"You can't, my lady. And it's getting late, too. The cooks will be here any minute now."
"Mr. Mosgo-what-not doesn't come till later, I suppose?"
"He's never here much before midnight. But, oh, my lady—"
"Don't talk so much, Alfred," said Bundle. "Get that tray. If you stay here arguing, you will get into trouble."
Doing what is familiarly known as "wringing his hands," Alfred departed. Presently he returned with a tray, and having by now realized that his protests were useless, he worked with a nervous energy quite surprising.
As Bundle had seen, the shelves were easily detachable. She took them down, ranged them upright against the wall, and then stepped in.
"H'm," she remarked. "Pretty narrow. It's going to be a tight fit. Shut the door on me carefully, Alfred—that's right. Yes, it can be done. Now I want a gimlet."
"A gimlet, my lady?"
"That's what I said."