“I’m all wet,” said Dimmy.
“You’re used to that,” said Bailey unfeelingly. “Dry your feet. Never mind the rest. Quick!” He threw a dressing-gown in, and Dimmy, as clean as Sunday morning, emerged.
“Are your feet quite dry, Dimmy?”
“Yes,” said that great Commoner, still a trifle ruffled.
“Well then, let me think.... Go in there.”
He pushed Demaine into a little writing-room that gave out of the corridor.
“Now then, go to that little table and sit perfectly tight. Do as I tell you and you are saved. Depart-by-but-one-iota-from-my-specific-instructions-and though you’ll ultimately be redeemed by your powerful relatives from the ignominy of incarceration, you cannot fail to become a laughing-stock before your fellow-citizens! Do you take me, Dimmy?”
Dimmy, who like the rest of the family was never quite certain whether William Bailey’s final outbreak into downright lunacy might not take place at any moment, suddenly sat where he was bid, and his cousin returned within thirty seconds bearing a woman’s walking-cloak and a respectable bonnet which, I regret to say, were those of Parrett herself. Bailey huddled the cloak upon the younger man, banged the bonnet upon his head, tied the ribbons under his chin, disposed his person with the back to the door, in the attitude of one writing a note, and said:
“Dimmy, could you talk in a high voice?”
“No, I can’t!” said Dimmy.