'I fear I am somewhat late,' he said. 'A slight accident on the road, affecting what my chauffeur termed the—'
And then he saw me lurking on the outskirts and gave a startled grunt, as if I hurt him a good deal internally.
'This—' began the prof, waving in my direction.
'I am already acquainted with Mr Wooster.'
'This,' went on the prof, 'is Miss Sipperley's nephew, Oliver. You remember Miss Sipperley?'
'What do you mean?' barked Sir Roderick. Having had so much to do with loonies has given him a rather sharp and authoritative manner on occasion. 'This is that wretched young man, Bertram Wooster. What is all this nonsense about Olivers and Sipperleys?'
The prof was eyeing me with some natural surprise. So were the others. I beamed a bit weakly.
'Well, as a matter of fact—' I said.
The prof was wrestling with the situation. You could hear his brain buzzing.
'He said he was Oliver Sipperley,' he moaned.