When Reason returned to its throne, I found that Bobbie, no doubt feeling after that resounding crash that she was better elsewhere, had left me and that I was closely entangled in the chair, my position being in some respects similar to that of Kipper Herring when he got both legs wrapped round his neck in Switzerland. It seemed improbable that I would ever get loose without the aid of powerful machinery.

However, by pulling this way and pushing that, I made progress, and I'd just contrived to de-chair myself and was about to rise, when another voice spoke.

'For Pete's sake!' it said, and, looking up, I found that it was not, as I had for a moment supposed, from the lips of the Brinkley Court ghost that the words had proceeded, but from those of Mrs Homer Cream. She was looking at me, as Sir Roderick Glossop had recently looked at Bobbie, with a wild surmise, her whole air that of a woman who is not abreast. This time, I noticed, she had an ink spot on her chin.

'Mr Wooster!' she yipped.

Well, there's nothing much you can say in reply to 'Mr Wooster!' except 'Oh, hullo,' so I said it.

'You are doubtless surprised,' I was continuing, when she hogged the conversation again, asking me (a) what I was doing in her son's room and (b) what in the name of goodness I thought I was up to.

'For the love of Mike,' she added, driving her point home.

It is frequently said of Bertram Wooster that he is a man who can think on his feet, and if the necessity arises he can also use his loaf when on all fours. On the present occasion I was fortunate in having had that get-together with the housemaid and the cat Augustus, for it gave me what they call in France a point d'appui. Removing a portion of chair which had got entangled in my back hair, I said with a candour that became me well:

'I was looking for a mouse.'

If she had replied, 'Ah, yes, indeed. I understand now. A mouse, to be sure. Quite,' everything would have been nice and smooth, but she didn't.

'A mouse?' she said. 'What do you mean?'

Well, of course, if she didn't know what a mouse was, there was evidently a good deal of tedious spadework before us, and one would scarcely have known where to start. It was a relief when her next words showed that that 'What do you mean?' had not been a query but more in the nature of a sort of heart-cry.

'What makes you think there is a mouse in this room?'

'The evidence points that way.'

'Have you seen it?'

'Actually, no. It's been lying what the French call perdu.'

'What made you come and look for it?'

'Oh, I thought I would.'

'And why were you standing on a chair?'

'Sort of just trying to get a bird's-eye view, as it were.'

'Do you often go looking for mice in other people's rooms?'

'I wouldn't say often. Just when the spirit moves me, don't you know?'

'I see. Well…'

When people say 'Well' to you like that, it usually means that they think you are outstaying your welcome and that the time has come to call it a day. She felt, I could see, that Woosters were not required in her son's sleeping apartment, and realizing that there might be something in this, I rose, dusted the knees of the trousers, and after a courteous word to the effect that I hoped the spine-freezer on which she was engaged was coming out well, left the presence. Happening to glance back as I reached the door, I saw her looking after me, that wild surmise still functioning on all twelve cylinders. It was plain that she considered my behaviour odd, and I'm not saying it wasn't. The behaviour of those who allow their actions to be guided by Roberta Wickham is nearly always odd.

The thing I wanted most at this juncture was to have a heart-to– heart talk with that young femme fatale, and after roaming hither and thither for a while I found her in my chair on the lawn, reading the Ma Cream book in which I had been engrossed when these doings had started. She greeted me with a bright smile, and said:

'Back already? Did you find it?'

With a strong effort I mastered my emotion and replied curtly but civilly that the answer was in the negative.

'No,' I said, 'I did not find it.'

'You can't have looked properly.'

Again I was compelled to pause and remind myself that an English gentleman does not slosh a sitting redhead, no matter what the provocation.

'I hadn't time to look properly. I was impeded in my movements by half-witted females sneaking up behind me and asking how I was getting on.'

'Well, I wanted to know.' A giggle escaped her. 'You did come down a wallop, didn't you? How art thou fallen from heaven, oh Lucifer, son of the morning, I said to myself. You're so terribly neurotic, Bertie. You must try to be less jumpy. What you need is a good nerve tonic. I'm sure Sir Roderick would shake you up one, if you asked him. And meanwhile?'

'How do you mean, «And meanwhile»?'

'What are your plans now?'

'I propose to hoik you out of that chair and seat myself in it and take that book, the early chapters of which I found most gripping, and start catching up with my reading and try to forget.'

'You mean you aren't going to have another bash?'

'I am not. Bertram is through. You may give this to the press, if you wish.'

'But the cow-creamer. How about your Uncle Tom's grief and agony when he learns of his bereavement?'

'Let Uncle Tom eat cake.'

'Bertie! Your manner is strange.'

'Your manner would be strange if you'd been sitting on the floor of Wilbert Cream's sleeping apartment with a chair round your neck, and Ma Cream had come in.'

'Golly! Did she?'

'In person.'

'What did you say?'

'I said I was looking for a mouse.'

'Couldn't you think of anything better than that?'

'No.'

'And how did it all come out in the end?'

'I melted away, leaving her plainly convinced that I was off my rocker. And so, young Bobbie, when you speak of having another bash, I merely laugh bitterly,' I said, doing so. 'Catch me going into that sinister room again! Not for a million pounds sterling, cash down in small notes.'

She made what I believe, though I wouldn't swear to it, is called a moue. Putting the lips together and shoving them out, if you know what I mean. The impression I got was that she was disappointed in Bertram, having expected better things, and this was borne out by her next words.

'Is this the daredevil spirit of the Woosters?'

'As of even date, yes.'

'Are you man or mouse?'

'Kindly do not mention that word «mouse» in my presence.'

'I do think you might try again. Don't spoil the ship for a ha'porth of tar. I'll help you this time.'

'Ha!'

'Haven't I heard that word before somewhere?'

'You may confidently expect to hear it again.'

'No, but listen, Bertie. Nothing can possibly go wrong if we work together. Mrs Cream won't show up this time. Lightning never strikes twice in the same place.'

'Who made that rule?'

'And if she does … Here's what I thought we'd do. You go in and start searching, and I'll stand outside the door.'

'You feel that will be a lot of help?'

'Of course it will. If I see her coming, I'll sing.'

'Always glad to hear you singing, of course, but in what way will that ease the strain?'

'Oh, Bertie, you really are an abysmal chump. Don't you get it? When you hear me burst into song, you'll know there's peril afoot and you'll have plenty of time to nip out of the window.'

'And break my bally neck?'

'How can you break your neck? There's a balcony outside the Blue Room. I've seen Wilbert Cream standing on it, doing his Daily Dozen. He breathes deeply and ties himself into a lovers' knot and –'

'Never mind Wilbert Cream's excesses.'

'I only put that in to make it more interesting. The point is that there is a balcony and once on it you're home. There's a water pipe at the end of it. You just slide down that and go on your way, singing a gypsy song. You aren't going to tell me that you have any objection to sliding down water pipes. Jeeves says you're always doing it.'