me, sir."

"That's not very reassuring," said I.

Marigold did not take up the argument. "They've sent the car for
you, sir."

"In that case," said I, "I'll start immediately."

Marigold wheeled my chair out of the room and down the passage to
the hall, where he fitted me with greatcoat and hat. Then, having
trundled me to the front gate, he picked me up--luckily I have
always been a small spare man--and deposited me in the car. I am
always nervous of anyone but Marigold trying to carry me. They
seem to stagger and fumble and bungle. Marigold's arms close round
me like an iron clamp and they lift me with the mechanical
certainty of a crane.

He jumped up beside the chauffeur and we drove off.

Perhaps when I get on a little further I may acquire the trick of
telling a story. At present I am baffled by the many things that
clamour for prior record. Before bringing Sir Anthony on the
scene, I feel I ought to say something more about myself, to
explain why Lady Fenimore should have sent for me in so peremptory
a fashion. Following the model of my favourite author Balzac--you
need the awful leisure that has been mine to appreciate him--I
ought to describe the house in which I live, my establishment--
well, I have begun with Sergeant Marigold--and the little country
town which is practically the scene of the drama in which were