Lord Peter Wimsey was not a young man who habitually took himself very seriously, but this time he was frankly appalled. «It's impossible,» said his reason, feebly; « credo quia impossibile,» said his interior certainty with impervious self-satisfaction. «All right,» said conscience, instantly allying itself with blind faith, «what are you going to do about it?»
Lord Peter got up and paced the room: «Good Lord!» he said. «Good Lord!» He took down «Who's Who» from the little shelf over the telephone, and sought comfort in its pages.
«FREKE, Sir Julian. Kt. er. 1916; G. C. V. O. er. 1919; K.C.V.O. 1917; K.C.B. 1918; M.D., F.R.C.P., F.R.C.S., Dr. en Med. Paris; D. Sci. Cantab.; Knight of Grace of the Order of S. John of Jerusalem; Consulting Surgeon of St. Luke's Hospital, Battersea. b. Gryllingham, 16 March 1872, only son , of Edward Curzon Freke Esq. of Gryll Court, Gryllingham. Educ. Harrow and Trinity Coll. Cambridge; Col. A.M.S.; late Member of the Advisory Board of the Army Medical Service. Publications: Some Notes on the Pathological Aspects of Genius, 1892; Statistical Contributions to the Study of Infantile Paralysis in England and Wales, 1894; Functional Disturbances of the Nervous System, 1899; Cerebro-Spinal Diseases, 1904; The Borderland of Insanity, 1906; An Examination into the Treatment of Pauper Lunacy in the United Kingdom, 1906; Modern Developments in Psycho-Therapy: A Criticism, 1910; Criminal Lunacy, 1914; The Application of Psycho-Therapy to the Treatment of Shell-Shock, 1917; An Answer to Professor Freud, with a Description of Some Experiments Carried Out at the Base Hospital at Amiens, 1919; Structural Modifications Accompanying the More Important Neuroses, 1920. Clubs: White's; Oxford and Cambridge; Alpine, etc. Recreations: Chess, Mountaineering, Fishing. Address: 82, Harley Street and St. Luke's House, Prince of Wales Road, Battersea Park, S.W. 11.»
He flung the book away. «Confirmation!» he groaned. «As if I needed it!»
He sat down again and buried his face in his hands. He remembered quite suddenly how, years ago, he had stood before the breakfast table at Denver Castle — a small, peaky boy in blue knickers, with a thunderously beating heart. The family had not come down; there was a great silver urn with a spirit lamp under it, and an elaborate coffee-pot boiling in a glass dome. He had twitched the corner of the tablecloth — twitched it harder, and the urn moved ponderously forward and all the teaspoons rattled. He seized the tablecloth in a firm grip and pulled his hardest — he could feel now the delicate and awful thrill as the urn and the coffee machine and the whole of a Sevres breakfast service had crashed down in one stupendous ruin — he remembered the horrified face of the butler, and the screams of a lady guest.
A log broke across and sank into a fluff of white ash. A belated motor-lorry rumbled past the window.
Mr. Bunter, sleeping the sleep of the true and faithful servant, was aroused in the small hours by a hoarse whisper, «Bunter!»
«Yes, my lord,» said Bunter, sitting up and switching on the light.
«Put that light out, damn you!» said the voice. «Listen — over there — listen — can't you hear it?»
«It's nothing, my lord,» said Mr. Bunter, hastily getting out of bed and catching hold of his master; «it's all right, you get to bed quick and I'll fetch you a drop of bromide. Why, you're all shivering — you've been sitting up too late.»