The servant still stood mutely by, with an air of almost violently disassociating himself from all commentary.
"Thank you," said Wimsey. "Would you be good enough to say to Miss Dorland that I am greatly obliged to her for this information."
"Very good, my lord."
"And perhaps you would kindly call me a taxi."
"Certainly, my lord."
Wimsey entered the taxi with all the dignity he could summon, and was taken to Lincoln's Inn.
Mr. Pritchard was nearly as remote and snubbing in his manner as Miss Dorland. He kept Lord Peter waiting for twenty minutes and received him glacially, in the presence of a beady-eyed clerk.
"Oh, good morning," said Wimsey, affably. "Excuse my callin' on you like this. More regular to do it through Murbles, I s'pose—nice old boy, Murbles, isn't he? But I always believe in goin' as direct to the point as may be. Saves time, what?"
Mr. Pritchard bowed his head and asked how he might have the pleasure of serving his lordship.
"Well, it's about this Fentiman business. Survivorship and all that. Nearly said survival. Appropriate, what? You might call the old General a survival, eh?"