ng out. He had had much more
to say on the subject of Derek Underhill, but Freddie's interruptions
had put it out of his head, and he felt irritated and baffled.

"Well, all I can say is," he remarked savagely, "that, if you have
come over here as an ambassador to try and effect a reconciliation
between Jill and Underhill, I hope to God you'll never find her."

Freddie emitted a weak cough, like a very far-off asthmatic old sheep.
He was finding Wally more overpowering every moment. He had rather
forgotten the dear old days of his childhood, but this conversation
was beginning to refresh his memory: and he was realizing more vividly
with every moment that passed how very Wallyish Wally was--how
extraordinarily like the Wally who had dominated his growing intellect
when they were both in Eton suits. Freddie in those days had been all
for peace, and he was all for peace now. He made his next observation
diffidently.

"I _have_ found her!"

Wally spun round.

"What!"

"When I say that, I don't absolutely mean I've seen her. I mean I know
where she is. That's what I came round to see you about. Felt I must
talk it over, you know. The situation seems to me dashed rotten and
not a little thick. The fact is, old man, she's gone on the stage. In
the chorus, you know. And, I mean to say, well, if you follow what I'm
driving at, what, what?"

"In the chorus?"

"In the chorus!"

"How do you know?"

Freddie groped for his eyeglass, which had fallen again. He regarded
it a trifle sternly. He was fond of the little chap, but it was always
doing that sort of thing. The whole trouble was that, if you wanted to
keep it in its place, you simply couldn't register any sort of emotion
with the good old features: and, when you were chatting with a fellow
like Wally Mason, you had to be registering something all the time.

"Well, that was a bit of luck, as a matter of fact. When I first got
here, you know, it seemed to me the only thing to do was to round up a
merry old detective and put the matter in his hands, like they do in
stories. _You_ know. Ring at the bell. 'And this, if I mistake not,
Watson, is my client now.' And then in breezes client and spills the
plot. I found a sleuth in the classified telephone directory, and
toddled round. Rummy chaps, detectives! Ever met any? I always thought
they were lean, hatchet-faced Johnnies with inscrutable smiles. This
one looked just like my old Uncle Ted, the one who died of apopl