"I say, Jonah," I said, "that fool Berry——"
It was with something of a shock that I found myself looking directly along the barrel of a .45 automatic pistol, which a stout gentleman, wearing a green mask, white kid gloves, and immaculate evening-dress, was pointing immediately at my nose.
"There now," he purred. "I was going to say, 'Hands up.' Just like that. 'Hands up.' It's so romantic. But I hadn't expected the dog. Suppose you put your right hand up."
I shook my head.
"I want that for my cigarette," I said.
For a moment we stood looking at one another. Then my fat vis-à-vis began to shake with laughter.
"You know," he gurgled, "this is most irregular. It's enough to make Jack Sheppard turn in his grave. It is really. However.... As an inveterate smoker, I feel for you. So we'll have a compromise." He nodded towards an armchair which stood by the window. "You go and sit down in that extremely comfortable armchair—sit well back—and we won't say any more about the hands."
As he spoke, he stepped forward. Nobby received him with a venomous growl, and to my amazement the fellow immediately caressed him.
"Dogs always take to me," he added. "I'm sure I don't know why, but it's a great help."
To my mortification, the Sealyham proved to be no exception to the rule. I could feel his tail going.