"I say, Tompkins," soared the voice. "I thought we had agreed to be civilized about this thing."
I raised my head to see a lean, dark-haired, dapper little man, with a dinky little British Raj mustache and a faint odor of antiseptics, glaring at me from the doorway.
"Dr. Rutherford, I presume!" I remarked.
"Yes, Winnie," came a pleasant but irritated womanly voice from somewhere behind the doctor, "and I too would like to know what this means."
"Is that you, Jimmie?" I guessed.
"Of course it's me! Who else did you expect? One of those flashy blondes from your office?"
"Sh!" shushed the doctor reprovingly. "What about Virginia? What have you done with her?"
This required serious thought. The glass of Scotch was a good alibi for amnesia. "To whom do you refer?" I asked, putting a slight thickness into my voice.
"To Virginia, my wife!" he snapped. "We agreed—it was understood between the four of us—"
I shook my head virtuously. "I haven't set eyes on her all day," I said. "I don't know where she is and I refuse to be held responsible for her in any particular. She's your look-out, not mine."