«Perfectly, thank you, my lord. The car is just arriving, your Grace.»
«With Mrs. Thipps inside it,» said the Duchess. «She'll be delighted to see you again, Peter. You remind her so of Mr. Thipps. Good-morning, Bunter.»
«Good-morning, your Grace.»
Parker accompanied them downstairs.
When they had gone he looked blankly at the paper in his hand — then, remembering that it was Saturday and there was need for haste, he hailed a taxi.
«Scotland Yard!» he cried.
Tuesday morning saw Lord Peter and a man in a velveteen jacket swishing merrily through seven acres of turnip-tops, streaked yellow with early frosts. A little way ahead, a sinuous undercurrent of excitement among the leaves proclaimed the unseen yet ever-near presence of one of the Duke of Denver's setter pups. Presently a partridge flew up with a noise like a police rattle, and Lord Peter accounted for it very creditably for a man who, a few nights before, had been listening to imaginary German sappers. The setter bounded foolishly through the turnips, and fetched back the dead bird.
«Good dog,» said Lord Peter.
Encouraged by this, the dog gave a sudden ridiculous gambol and barked, its ear tossed inside out over its head.
«Heel,» said the man in velveteen, violently. The animal sidled up, ashamed.