Psmith eyed Mike with approval. “He thinks of everything! You’re the man, Comrade Jackson, to conduct an affair of this kind—such foresight! such resource! We must see to this at once; if they put us in different rooms we’re done—we shall be destroyed singly in the watches of the night.”
“We’d better nip down to the matron right off.”
“Not the matron—Comrade Outwood is the man. We are as sons to him; there is nothing he can deny us. I’m afraid we are quite spoiling his afternoon by these interruptions, but we must rout him out once more.”
As they got up, the door handle rattled again, and this time there followed a knocking.
“This must be an emissary of Comrade Spiller’s,” said Psmith. “Let us parley with the man.”
Mike unlocked the door. A light-haired youth with a cheerful, rather vacant face and a receding chin strolled into the room, and stood giggling with his hands in his pockets.
“I just came up to have a look at you,” he explained.
“If you move a little to the left,” said Psmith, “you will catch the light and shade effects on Jackson’s face better.”
The new-comer giggled with renewed vigour. “Are you the chap with the eyeglass who jaws all the time?”
“I do wear an eyeglass,” said Psmith; “as to the rest of the description——”