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264
Right Ho, Jeeves
·
P. G. Wodehouse
252
“But
it
is
at
the
Court,
sir.”
I
clicked
the
tongue,
annoyed.
“Don’t
be
frivolous,
my
dear
old
butler,”
I
said.
“I
haven’t
ridden
nine
miles
on
a
push-bike
to
listen
to
you
trying
to
be
funny.
You’ve
got
it
in
your
trousers
pocket.”
“No,
sir.
I
left
it
with
Mr.
Jeeves.”
“You
did--what?”
“Yes,
sir.
Before
I
came
away.
Mr.
Jeeves
said
that
he
wished
to
walk
in
the
garden
before
retiring
for
the
night.
He
was
to
place
the
key
on
the
kitchen
window-sill.”
I
stared
at
the
man
dumbly.
His
eye
was
clear,
his
hand
steady.
He
had
none
of
the
appearance
of
a
butler
who
has
had
a
couple.
“You
mean
that
all
this
while
the
key
has
been
in
Jeeves’s
possession?”
“Yes,
sir.”
I
could
speak
no
more.
Emotion
had
overmastered
my
voice.
I
was
at
a
loss
and
not
abreast;
but
of
one
thing,
it
seemed
to
me,
there
could
be
no
doubt.
For
some
reason,
not
to
be
fathomed
now,
but
most
certainly
to
be
gone
well
into
as
soon
as
I
had
pushed
this
infernal
sewing-machine
of
mine
over
those
nine
miles
of
lonely,
country
road
and
got
within
striking
distance
of
him,
Jeeves
had
been
doing
the
dirty.
Knowing
that
at
any
given
moment
he
could
have
solved
the
whole
situation,
he
had
kept
Aunt
Dahlia
and
others
roosting
out
on
the
front
lawn
en
déshabille
and,
worse
still,
had
stood
calmly
by
and
watched
his
young
employer
set
out
on
a
wholly
unnecessary
eighteen-mile
bicycle
ride.
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