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Page 13
"I do not remember any friend of yours named Emerson."
"Well, as a matter of fact, I met him last night for the first
time. But it's all right. He's a good chap, don't you know!
--and all that sort of rot."
Lord Emsworth was feeling too benevolent to raise the objections
he certainly would have raised had his mood been less sunny.
"Certainly; let him come if he wishes."
"Thanks, gov'nor."
Freddie completed his toilet.
"Doing anything special this morning, gov'nor? I rather thought
of getting a bit of breakfast and then strolling round a bit.
Have you had breakfast?"
"Two hours ago. I trust that in the course of your strolling you
will find time to call at Mr. Peters' and see Aline. I shall be
going there directly after lunch. Mr. Peters wishes to show me
his collection of--I think scarabs was the word he used."
"Oh, I'll look in all right! Don't you worry! Or if I don't I'll
call the old boy up on the phone and pass the time of day. Well,
I rather think I'll be popping off and getting that bit of
breakfast--what?"
Several comments on this speech suggested themselves to Lord
Emsworth. In the first place, he did not approve of Freddie's
allusion to one of America's merchant princes as "the old boy."
Second, his son's attitude did not strike him as the ideal
attitude of a young man toward his betrothed. There seemed to be
a lack of warmth. But, he reflected, possibly this was simply
another manifestation of the modern spirit; and in any case it
was not worth bothering about; so he offered no criticism.
Presently, Freddie having given his shoes a flick with a silk
handkerchief and thrust the latter carefully up his sleeve, they
passed out and down into the main lobby of the hotel, where they
parted--Freddie to his bit of breakfast; his father to potter
about the streets and kill time until luncheon. London was always
a trial to the Earl of Emsworth. His heart was in the country and
the city held no fascinations for him.
* * *
On one of the floors in one of the buildings in one of the
streets that slope precipitously from the Strand to the Thames
Embankment, there is a door that would be all the better for a
lick of paint, which bears what is perhaps the most modest and
unostentatious announcement of its kind in London. The grimy
ground-glass displays the words:
R. JONES
Simply that and nothing more. It is rugged in its simplicity.
You wonder, as you look at it--if you have time to look at and
wonder about these things--who this Jones may be; and what is the
business he conducts with such coy reticence.
As a matter of fact, these speculations had passed through
suspicious minds at Scotland Yard, which had for some time taken
not a little interest in R. Jones. But beyond ascertaining that
he bought and sold curios, did a certain amount of bookmaking
during the flat-racing season, and had been known to lend money,
Scotland Yard did not find out much about Mr. Jones and presently
dismissed him from its thoughts.
On the theory, given to the world by William Shakespeare, that it
is the lean and hungry-looking men who are dangerous, and that
the "fat, sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights," are
harmless, R. Jones should have been above suspicion. He was
infinitely the fattest man in the west-central postal district of
London. He was a round ball of a man, who wheezed when he walked
upstairs, which was seldom, and shook like jelly if some tactless
friend, wishing to attract his attention, tapped him unexpectedly
on the shoulder. But this occurred still less frequently than his
walking upstairs; for in R. Jones' circle it was recognized that
nothing is a greater breach of etiquette and worse form than to
tap people unexpectedly on the shoulder. That, it was felt,
should be left to those who are paid by the government to do it.
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