"Who's a nasty drunken people, may I ask?" inquired Mrs. Perrigord, suddenly raising a flushed face from Morgan's shoulder.
"All I was saying, darling—"
A fusillade of knocks on the door froze the conspirators where they stood.
"Signor Fortinbras!" exclaimed a voice with a broad rolling accent. The knocks were redoubled.
"Signor Fortinbras! It ees-a me, Signor Benito — Furioso — Camposozzi! Signor Perrigord he weesha to know eef you are alla-right. He—"
Peggy raised a quavering voice. "He is quite all right, Signor Camposozzi. He ees-a — I mean, he is dressing now. Please come back in five minutes. Mrs. Perrigord wishes to speak to you."
"Ah! Good! Tenn-mee-noota and we start. Good! Good! I am averraglad to hear it. Signor Ivan Slifovitz hasa tolda me," bawled Signor Camposozzi, with deplorable Latin lack of reticence, "that he thought you might hava drink too moocha Gin…"
"Gin?" repeated a sudden, thoughtful, sepulchral voice just behind Morgan. It seemed to come from deep down in the earth. "Gin?"
Uncle Jules abruptly sat up. He slid off the couch. With eyes half-closed and face intent, as though some illuminating idea had come to him, he walked straight to the door.
"Je vais chercher le gin," he explained hurriedly.