"Taxi, Mr. Crocker?"

"A worm," said Jimmy.

"Beg pardon, sir?"

"Always drinking," explained Jimmy, "and making a pest of
himself."

He passed on. The commissionaire stared after him as intently as
the waiter and the hat-check boy. He had sometimes known Mr.
Crocker like this after supper, but never before during the
luncheon hour.

Jimmy made his way to his club in Northumberland Avenue. For
perhaps half an hour he sat in a condition of coma in the
smoking-room; then, his mind made up, he went to one of the
writing-tables. He sat awaiting inspiration for some minutes,
then began to write.

The letter he wrote was to his father:


Dear Dad:

I have been thinking over what we talked about this
morning, and it seems to me the best thing I can do is to
drop out of sight for a brief space. If I stay on in
London, I am likely at any moment to pull some boner like
last night's which will spill the beans for you once more.