"Torchy," Mr. Ellins winds up with, shootin' me a meanin' look from under
his bushy eyebrows, "I want you to show the Lieutenant our main works."

"Eh?" says I, gawpin'. For he knew very well there wasn't any such thing.

His left eyelid does a slow flutter.

"The main works, you understand," he repeats. "And see that Lieutenant
Fothergill is well taken care of. You will find the limousine waiting."

"Yes, sir," says I. "I'm right behind you."

Course, if Mr. Robert had been there instead of off honeymoonin', this
would have been his job. He'd have towed Cecil to his club, fed him
Martinis and vintage stuff until he couldn't have told a 32-inch shell
from an ashcan; handed him a smooth spiel about capacity, strain tests,
shipping facilities, and so on, and dumped him at his hotel entirely
satisfied that all was well, without having been off Fifth Avenue.

The best I can do, though, is to steer him into a flossy Broadway grill,
shove him the wine-card with the menu, and tell him to go the limit.

He orders a pot of tea and a combination chop.

"Oh, say, have another guess," says I. "What's the matter with that
squab caserole and something in a silver ice-bucket?"

"Thank you, no," says he. "I--er--my nerves, you know."

I couldn't deny that he looked it, either. Such a high-strung, jumpy