"Yes, please ... oh, don't cut us off ... wait ... oh! I haven't any more pennies ... Lord Peter...."
"I'll come round at once," said Wimsey, with a groan.
"Oh, thank you—thank you so much!"
"I say—where's Robert?"
"Your six minutes are up," said the voice, finally, and the line went dead with a metallic crash.
"Get me my clothes," said Wimsey, bitterly—"give me those loathsome and despicable rags which I hoped to have put off forever. Get me a taxi. Get me a drink. Macbeth has murdered sleep. Oh! and get me Robert Fentiman, first."
Major Fentiman was not in town, said Woodward. He had gone back to Richmond again. Wimsey tried to get through to Richmond. After a long time, a female voice, choked with sleep and fury, replied. Major Fentiman had not come home. Major Fentiman kept very late hours. Would she give Major Fentiman a message when he did come in? Indeed she would not. She had other things to do than to stay up all night answering the telephone calls and giving messages to Major Fentiman. This was the second time that night, and she had told the other party that she could not be responsible for telling Major Fentiman this, that and the other. Would she leave a note for Major Fentiman, asking him to go round to his brother's house at once? Well now, was it reasonable to expect her to sit up on a bitter cold night writing letters? Of course not, but this was a case of urgent illness. It would be a very great kindness. Just that—to go round to his brother's house and say the call came from Lord Peter Wimsey.
"Who?"
"Lord Peter Wimsey."
"Very well, sir. I beg your pardon if I was a bit short, but really——"