"It wasna till the next mornin'," said Maggie, "that Mr. Macpherson opened yon telegram. Eh! but he was in a taking. An' then the telegrams startit. Back an' forrit, back an' forrit atween the hoose an' the post-office. An' then they fund the bits o' the bottle that the specimen was in, stuck between twa stanes i' the river. And aff goes Mr. Macpherson an' Jock wi' their waders on an' a couple o' gaffs, huntin' in a' the pools an' under the stanes to find the specimen. An' they're still at it."
At this point three heavy thumps sounded on the ceiling.
"Gude save us!" ejaculated Maggie, "I was forgettin' the puir gentleman."
"What gentleman?" enquired Wimsey.
"Him that was feshed oot o' the Fleet," replied Maggie. "Excuse me juist a moment, sir."
She fled swiftly upstairs. Wimsey poured himself out a third cup of coffee and lit a pipe.
Presently a thought occurred to him. He finished the coffee—not being a man to deprive himself of his pleasures—and walked quietly upstairs in Maggie's wake. Facing him stood a bedroom door, half open—the room which he had occupied during his stay at the cottage. He pushed it open. In the bed lay a red-headed gentleman, whose long, foxy countenance was in no way beautified by a white bandage, tilted rakishly across the left temple. A breakfast-tray stood on a table by the bed. Wimsey stepped forward with extended hand.
"Good morning, Mr. Ferguson," said he. "This is an unexpected pleasure."
"Good morning," said Mr. Ferguson snappishly.
"I had no idea, when we last met," pursued Wimsey, advancing to the bed and sitting down upon it, "that you were thinking of visiting my friend Macpherson."