"All right," said Mike.

"And now, Comrade Windsor, it would be a pleasure to me to peruse
that little journal of which you spoke. I have had so few
opportunities of getting into touch with the literature of this
great country."

Billy Windsor stretched out an arm and pulled a bundle of papers
from the book-stand. He tossed them on to the settee by Psmith's
side.

"There you are," he said, "if you really feel like it. Don't say I
didn't warn you. If you've got the nerve, read on."

Psmith had picked up one of the papers when there came a shuffling
of feet in the passage outside, followed by a knock upon the door.
The next moment there appeared in the doorway a short, stout young
man. There was an indescribable air of toughness about him, partly
due to the fact that he wore his hair in a well-oiled fringe almost
down to his eyebrows, which gave him the appearance of having no
forehead at all. His eyes were small and set close together. His
mouth was wide, his jaw prominent. Not, in short, the sort of man
you would have picked out on sight as a model citizen.

His entrance was marked by a curious sibilant sound, which, on
acquaintance, proved to be a whistled tune. During the interview
which followed, except when he was speaking, the visitor whistled
softly and unceasingly.

"Mr. Windsor?" he said to the company at large.