“Isn’t he wonderful, Mr. Corcoran?” cried Millie.
“I can rely on you, Corky? You will not let me down over your end of the business?”
“You will do this for us, Mr. Corcoran, won’t you?” pleaded Millie.
I gave one look at her. Her Persian kitten eyes beamed into mine—gaily, trustfully, confidently. I gulped.
“All right,” I said, huskily.
A leaden premonition of impending doom weighed me down next morning as I got into the cab which was to take me to Heath House, Wimbledon Common. I tried to correct this shuddering panic, by telling myself that it was simply due to my recollection of what I had suffered at my previous visit to the place, but it refused to leave me. A black devil of apprehension sat on my shoulder all the way, and as I rang the front-door bell it seemed to me that this imp emitted a chuckle more sinister than any that had gone before. And suddenly as I waited there I understood.
No wonder the imp had chuckled! Like a flash I perceived where the fatal flaw in this enterprise lay. It was just like Ukridge, poor impetuous, woollen-headed ass, not to have spotted it; but that I myself should have overlooked it was bitter indeed. The simple fact which had escaped our joint attention was this—that, as I had visited the house before, the butler would recognise me. I might succeed in purloining the speech, but it would be reported to the Woman Up Top that the mysterious visitor who had called for the manuscript was none other than the loathly Mr. Corcoran of hideous memory—and what would happen then? Prosecution? Jail? Social ruin?
I was on the very point of retreating down the steps when the door was flung open, and there swept over me the most exquisite relief I have ever known.
It was a new butler who stood before me.
“Well?”