"Oh!—may the fellow who invented them fry in oil. Thanks frightfully, all the same. It gives us a line on the direction, anyhow."
"Sorry I couldn't do better for you. Cheerio!"
"Oh, cheer-damnably-ho!" retorted Wimsey, crossly, slamming the receiver down. "What is it, Bunter?"
"A district messenger, with a note, my lord."
"Ah,—from Mr. Murbles. Good. This may be something. Yes. Tell the boy to wait, there's an answer." He scribbled quickly. "Mr. Murbles has got an answer to that cabman advertisement, Bunter. There are two men turning up at six o'clock, and I'm arranging to go down and interview them."
"Very good, my lord."
"Let's hope that means we get a move on. Get me my hat and coat—I'm running round to Dover Street for a moment."
Robert Fentiman was there when Wimsey called, and welcomed him heartily.
"Any progress?"
"Possibly a little this evening. I've got a line on those cabmen. I just came round to ask if you could let me have a specimen of old Fentiman's fist."