«Parker,» said Lord Peter, opening it. It said:
«Description recognized Chelsea Workhouse. Unknown vagrant injured street accident Wednesday week. Died workhouse Monday. Delivered St. Luke's same evening by order Freke. Much puzzled. Parker.»
«Hurray!» said Lord Peter, suddenly sparkling. «I'm glad I've puzzled Parker. Gives me confidence in myself. Makes me feel like Sherlock Holmes. “Perfectly simple, Watson.” Dash it all, though! this is a beastly business. Still, it's puzzled Parker.»
«What's the matter?» asked the Duke, getting up and yawning.
«Marching orders,» said Peter, «back to town. Many thanks for your hospitality, old bird — I'm feelin' no end better. Ready to tackle Professor Moriarty or Leon Kestrel or any of 'em.»
«I do wish you'd keep out of the police courts,» grumbled the Duke. «It makes it so dashed awkward for me, havin' a brother makin' himself conspicuous.»
«Sorry, Gerald,» said the other, «I know I'm a beastly blot on the 'scutcheon.»
«Why can't you marry and settle down and live quietly, doin' something useful?» said the Duke unappeased.
«Because that was a wash-out as you perfectly well know,» said Peter; «besides,» he added cheerfully, «I'm bein' no end useful. You may come to want me yourself, you never know. When anybody comes blackmailin' you, Gerald, or your first deserted wife turns up unexpectedly from the West Indies, you'll realize the pull of havin' a private detective in the family. 'Delicate private business arranged with tact and discretion. Investigations undertaken. Divorce evidence a specialty. Every guarantee! Come, now.»
«Ass!» said Lord Denver, throwing the newspaper violently into his armchair. «When do you want the car?»