“Unfortunately,” I replied, “that was not necessary. I was myself occupying them on the occasion in question.”
“But I don’t understand,” he said. “Where’s Miss Botterill? Bring me that chair back. I want to sit down.”
She brought back the chair, and just as she did so, the street door opened to admit a new-comer—none other, indeed, than the Reverend Eugene Cake, bearing the type-script of his new novel.[[11]]
[11]. Gnashers of Teeth.
It was an important entrance. But Mr. Chrysostom still sat staring at the counter, and having greeted Mr. Cake rather perfunctorily, demanded a further inspection of the trousers. Once again therefore I placed them upon the counter, and once again Miss Botterill recoiled, the Reverend Eugene Cake recoiling also and dropping the type-script of his novel.
“Now,” said Mr. Chrysostom, “you have already informed me that you were encased in these nauseating garments, and you have further asserted that Mr. Maidstone was solely responsible for their present condition. Mr. Maidstone, you tell me, is probably detained somewhere, and it is now a quarter past nine. I may be unintelligent. I may be obtuse. I may be unfit to conduct this business. But I don’t understand it, sir. I don’t understand it. Where’s Miss Botterill? Get Mr. Cake a chair.”
With her hand over her face, Miss Botterill ran across the show-room and returned with a chair for Mr. Cake. Mr. Chrysostom glanced at him.
“Are you comfortable, Cake?”
The Reverend Eugene bowed a little stiffly.
“Very well, then,” said Mr. Chrysostom.