“He stammered a little and looked embarrassed.
“‘Yes—I—I’m sorry. It was rude of me, but ... well, you remind me very much of someone.’
“‘And who might that be?’ I asked.
“‘An actress. You probably wouldn’t know her. We thought a lot of her once—Pussy Willow.’
“It knocked me sideways, I can tell you. I thought the world had forgotten Pussy, or that those who did remember wouldn’t recognise her now in what she is.
“‘You ought to be a detective then,’ I says, ‘you’ve touched the right target.’
“It told. I hoped it would. He stammered: ‘What! you—you really are the Pussy Willow who——’
“And suddenly, for cheek, I cocked back my hat as I used to at the jolly old Vaudeville, and I plumped my fists down on my hips and swayed backwards and began to sing the first verse of that old thing of mine—you remember it, when I wore that great silver dress, ‘Love is the song of a girl and a boy.’
“He knew then: ‘Pussy Willow!’ he murmured. Then stood looking at me as they all do, those that remember me, when I tell them who I am; looked at me till I got all hot and shivery.
“‘Oh, come off it,’ I said, ‘Give me a drink, old pal.’