"Twenty minutes, my lord."
"Pack my toothbrush and call a taxi."
"Certainly, my lord."
"But, Wimsey, what light does it throw on Cathcart's murder? Did this woman—"
"I've no time," said Wimsey hurriedly. "But I'll be back in a day or two. Meanwhile—"
He hunted hastily in the bookshelf.
"Read this."
He flung the book at his friend and plunged into his bedroom.
At eleven o'clock, as a gap of dirty water disfigured with oil and bits of paper widened between the Normannia and the quay; while hardened passengers fortified their sea-stomachs with cold ham and pickles, and the more nervous studied the Boddy jackets in their cabins; while the harbor lights winked and swam right and left, and Lord Peter scraped acquaintance with a second-rate cinema actor in the bar, Charles Parker sat, with a puzzled frown, before the fire at 110 Piccadilly, making his first acquaintance with the delicate masterpiece of the Abbé Prévost.