“I don’t think you need come at once,” said Diana. “Just call in—don’t be surprised if you find somebody here you’ve heard me speak about.”
“Not Dempsi?” he asked, astonished.
“Yes, he is ... staying for a day or two. I’ll explain when you come.”
He lunched in the gloomy solitude of his club (it was Sunday, the day on which all clubs are at their worst) and early in the afternoon strolled round to Cheynel Gardens. The door was opened by a stage butler. Bobbie looked fascinated at the glittering display of shirt-front and the ill-fitting dress suit, several times too small for its wearer.
“Mrs. Ford is in The Study,” said the apparition gruffly.
Bobbie gazed in wonder; the servitor with the concertina trousers might have stepped out from any burlesque of any triangle drama. Had there been printed across the dazzling shirt-front “James: an old family servant, devoted to the children,” he could not have been more obvious.
“So you’re the new butler?”
The new butler put his hand on his heart, bowed and growled:
“Yes, sir—name of Smith.” He was squinting, his face fearfully distorted.