"That's all right," said Billy, patting his breast-pocket. "Nobody's going to get it from me."
Psmith dipped his hand into his trouser-pocket.
"Comrade Windsor," he said, producing a piece of paper, "how do we go?"
He leaned back in his chair, surveying Billy blandly through his eye-glass. Billy's eyes were goggling. He looked from Psmith to the paper and from the paper to Psmith.
"What—what the—?" he stammered. "Why, it's it!"
Psmith nodded.
"How on earth did you get it?"
Psmith knocked the ash off his cigarette.
"Comrade Windsor," he said, "I do not wish to cavil or carp or rub it in in any way. I will merely remark that you pretty nearly landed us in the soup, and pass on to more congenial topics. Didn't you know we were followed to this place?"
"Followed!"