"One of these days I suppose I shall give you something to do which you will jib at," said his lordship, "and you will leave me and I shall cut my throat. Thanks. Run away and play. I shall lunch at the club."
The book which Bunter had handed his employer indeed bore the words Who's Who engrossed upon its cover, but it was to be found in no public library and in no bookseller's shop. It was a bulky manuscript, closely filled, in part with the small print-like handwriting of Mr. Bunter, in part with Lord Peter's neat and altogether illegible hand. It contained biographies of the most unexpected people, and the most unexpected facts about the most obvious people. Lord Peter turned to a very long entry under the name of the Dowager Duchess of Medway. It appeared to make satisfactory reading, for after a time he smiled, closed the book, and went to the telephone.
"Yes—this is the Duchess of Medway. Who is it?"
The deep, harsh old voice pleased Lord Peter. He could see the imperious face and upright figure of what had been the most famous beauty in the London of the 'sixties.
"It's Peter Wimsey, duchess."
"Indeed, and how do you do, young man? Back from your Continental jaunting?"
"Just home—and longing to lay my devotion at the feet of the most fascinating lady in England."
"God bless my soul, child, what do you want?" demanded the duchess. "Boys like you don't flatter an old woman for nothing."
"I want to tell you my sins, duchess."
"You should have lived in the great days," said the voice appreciatively. "Your talents are wasted on the young fry."