Right Ho, Jeeves

“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.