Lord Tilbury sighed. He found this young man’s eccentricities increasingly hard to bear. With that sad wistfulness which the Greeks called pathos and the Romans desiderium, he thought of the happy days, only a few weeks back, when he had been a peaceful, care-free man, ignorant of Sam’s very existence. He had had his troubles then, no doubt; but how small and trivial they seemed now.
“I suppose Twist will shave off his moustache if you wish it,” he said wearily.
Chancing to catch that eminent private investigator’s eye, he was surprised to note its glazed and despairing expression. The man had the air of one who has received a death sentence.
“Shave it?” quavered Chimp, fondling the growth tenderly. “Shave my moustache?”
“Shave it,” said Sam firmly. “Hew it down. Raze it to the soil and sow salt upon the foundations.”
“Very good, sir,” said Chimp lugubriously.
“That is settled then,” said Lord Tilbury, relieved. “So you will enter Mr. Shotter’s employment immediately, Twist.”
Chimp nodded a mournful nod.
“You will find Twist thoroughly satisfactory, I am sure. He is quiet, sober, respectful and hard-working.”
“Ah, that’s bad,” said Sam.