"Not in the office, anyway—whatever he may have been elsewhere," said Miss Twitterton darkly.
"Oh?"
"Oh! he was a one," said Miss Twitterton. "He certainly was a one. Some friends of mine met him one evening up in the West End, and they came back with some nice stories. It was quite a joke in the office—old Plant and his rosebuds, you know. Mr. Cowley—he's the Cowley, you know, who rides in the motor-cycle races—he always said he knew what to think of Mr. Plant and his motor-tours. That time Mr. Plant pretended he'd gone touring in Wales, Mr. Cowley was asking him about the roads, and he didn't know a thing about them. Because Mr. Cowley really had been touring there, and he knew quite well Mr. Plant hadn't been where he said he had; and, as a matter of fact, Mr. Cowley knew he'd been staying the whole time in a hotel at Aberystwyth, in very attractive company."
Miss Twitterton finished her coffee and slapped the cup down defiantly.
"And now I really must run away, or I shall be most dreadfully late. And thank you ever so much."
"Hullo!" said Inspector Winterbottom, "you've bought that portrait, then?"
"Yes," said Wimsey. "It's a fine bit of work." He gazed thoughtfully at the canvas. "Sit down, inspector; I want to tell you a story."
"And I want to tell you a story," replied the inspector.
"Let's have yours first," said Wimsey, with an air of flattering eagerness.