Lord Peter jabbed viciously with the glass rod.
"Just you wait," he said, in a vindictive tone, "till we get to Waterloo."
Three days later Lord Peter Wimsey sat in his book-lined sitting-room at 110A Piccadilly. The tall bunches of daffodils on the table smiled in the spring sunshine, and nodded to the breeze which danced in from the open window. The door opened, and his lordship glanced up from a handsome edition of the Contes de la Fontaine, whose handsome hand-coloured Fragonard plates he was examining with the aid of a lens.
"Morning, Bunter. Anything doing?"
"I have ascertained, my lord, that the young person in question has entered the service of the elder Duchess of Medway. Her name is Célestine Berger."
"You are less accurate than usual, Bunter. Nobody off the stage is called Célestine. You should say 'under the name of Célestine Berger.' And the man?"
"He is domiciled at this address in Guilford Street, Bloomsbury, my lord."
"Excellent, my Bunter. Now give me Who's Who. Was it a very tiresome job?"
"Not exceptionally so, my lord."