dialogue, I see that I have made the second of these two floaters. I shall have to hark back a bit. And taking it for all in all and weighing this against that, I suppose the affair may be said to have had its inception, if inception is the word I want, with that visit of mine to Cannes. If I hadn’t gone to Cannes, I shouldn’t have met the Bassett or bought that white mess jacket, and Angela wouldn’t have met her shark, and Aunt Dahlia wouldn’t have played baccarat. Yes, most decidedly, Cannes was the _point d’appui_. Right ho, then. Let me marshal my facts. I went to Cannes--leaving Jeeves behind, he having intimated that he did not wish to miss Ascot--round about the beginning of June. With me travelled my Aunt Dahlia and her daughter Angela. Tuppy Glossop, Angela’s betrothed, was to have been of the party, but at the last moment couldn’t get away. Uncle Tom, Aunt Dahlia’s husband, remained at home, because he can’t stick the South of France at any price. So there you have the layout--Aunt Dahlia, Cousin Angela and self off to Cannes round about the beginning of June. All pretty clear so far, what? We stayed at Cannes about two months, and except for the fact that Aunt Dahlia lost her shirt at baccarat and Angela nearly got inhaled by a shark while aquaplaning, a pleasant time was had by all. On July the twenty-fifth, looking bronzed and fit, I accompanied aunt and child back to London. At seven p.m. on July the twenty-sixth we alighted at Victoria. And at seven-twenty or thereabouts we parted with mutual expressions of esteem--they to shove off in Aunt Dahlia’s car to Brinkley Court, her place in Worcestershire, where they were expecting to entertain Tuppy in a day or two; I to go to the flat, drop my luggage, clean up a bit, and put on the soup and fish preparatory to pushing round to the Drones for a bite of dinner. And it was while I was at the flat, towelling the torso after a much-needed rinse, that Jeeves, as we chatted of this and that--picking up the threads, as it were--suddenly brought the name of Gussie Fink-Nottle into the conversation. As I recall it, the dialogue ran something as follows: SELF: Well, Jeeves, here we are, what? JEEVES: Yes, sir. SELF: I mean to say, home again. JEEVES: Precisely, sir. SELF: Seems ages since I went away. JEEVES: Yes, sir. SELF: Have a good time at Ascot? JEEVES: Most agreeable, sir. SELF: Win anything? JEEVES: Quite a satisfactory sum, thank you, sir. SELF: Good. Well, Jeeves, what news on the Rialto? Anybody been phoning or calling or anything during my abs.? JEEVES: Mr. Fink-Nottle, sir, has been a frequent caller. I stared. Indeed, it would not be too much to say that I gaped. “Mr. Fink-Nottle?” “Yes, sir.” “You don’t mean Mr. Fink-Nottle?” “Yes, sir.” “But Mr. Fink-Nottle’s not in London?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, I’m blowed.” And I’ll tell you why I was blowed. I found it scarcely possible to give credence to his statement. This Fink-Nottle, you see, was one of those freaks you come across from time to time during life’s journey who can’t stand London. He lived year in and year out, covered with moss, in a remote village down in Lincolnshire, never coming up even for the Eton and Harrow match. And when I asked him once if he didn’t find the time hang a bit heavy on his hands, he said, no, because he had a pond in...