CHAPTER II
You needn't pack,” said Sampson to his valet that evening. “I'm stuck.”
“Stuck, sir?”
“Caught on the jury, Turple. Landed at last. But,” he sighed, “I've given 'em a good run though, haven't I?”
“You 'ave, sir. I dare say you will like it 'owever, now that you've been stuck, as you say. My father, when he was alive, was very fond of serving on the juries, sir. He was constantly being 'ad up in small cases, and it was 'is greatest ham—ambition to get a whack at a good 'orrifying murder trial. I 'ope as 'ow you 'ave been stuck on a murder case, sir. In England we—”
“It isn't a murder case. Merely embezzlement. But I must not discuss the case, Turple, not even with you.”
“What a pity, sir. You usually consult me about any think that—”
“Call up the New York Central office at Thirtieth Street and cancel my reservations, and lay out a blue serge suit for to-morrow.”
“Isn't it a bit coolish to be wearing a serge—”
“Those court-rooms are frightfully close, Turple. A blue serge.''