“Sir,” said Mrs. Bowles, “there is a body in your sitting-room.”
“A body!” I am bound to say that this Phillips-Oppenheim-like opening to the conversation gave me something of a shock. Then I remembered her nationality. “Oh, you mean a man?”
“A woman,” corrected Mrs. Bowles. “A body in a pink hat.”
I was conscious of a feeling of guilt. In this pure and modest house, female bodies in pink hats seemed to require explanation. I felt that the correct thing to do would have been to call upon Heaven to witness that this woman was nothing to me, nothing.
“I was to give you this letter, sir.”
I took it and opened the envelope with a sigh. I had recognised the handwriting of Ukridge, and for the hundredth time in our close acquaintanceship there smote me like a blow the sad suspicion that this man had once more gone and wished upon me some frightful thing.
“My dear old Horse,—
“It’s not often I ask you to do anything for me...
I laughed hollowly.
“My dear old Horse,—