"What's the matter, son?" asked H.M. casually. "You don't know anything about it, do you?"
"No, but this autobiography—"
"Napoleon," said H.M., "could do five or six things at once. I can have a good shot at managin' two. You come along. I'll sort of look into this; and at intervals, I’ll sort of dictate to you over my shoulder."
Courtney, on the point of intimating that this was the craziest idea which even H.M. appeared to have had so far, checked himself and thought of Frank Sharpless. After all, why not?
"But I can't go barging in there!"
"You can," replied H.M. simply, "if you're with me. Colonel Race says his secretary's there. Gal named Ann Browning. Race says this gal's got her headpiece screwed on right, and knows a thing or two. That's all eyewash, naturally. There never was a woman who was any ruddy good as a secretary; except my Lolly-pop, of course, and she's different. But it might be interest-in' to see what this gal says."
"Well-"
"Get your hat," glared H.M., "and come on."
Courtney did not have a hat. But, as H.M. took a Panama of regrettable design from the hat-rack, he followed the lumbering figure down the hall into a hot, silver, moonlight night.
Passers-by in the elm-shaded street might have been startled by a voice which marched beneath the elms. It was a strange, throaty, self-conscious voice, like that of a prophet in a trance or a ventriloquist talking bass.