miles away from the office, speculating on what sort of a man J. B.
Garside, Esq, was, and whether he had a good time at his house in
Worcestershire, when somebody tapped him on the shoulder.

He looked up.

Standing by his side, immaculately dressed as ever, with his eye-glass
fixed and a gentle smile on his face, was Psmith.

Mike stared.

'Commerce,' said Psmith, as he drew off his lavender gloves, 'has
claimed me for her own. Comrade of old, I, too, have joined this
blighted institution.'

As he spoke, there was a whirring noise in the immediate neighbourhood,
and Mr Rossiter buzzed out from his den with the _esprit_ and
animation of a clock-work toy.

'Who's here?' said Psmith with interest, removing his eye-glass,
polishing it, and replacing it in his eye.

'Mr Jackson,' exclaimed Mr Rossiter. 'I really must ask you to be good
enough to come in from your lunch at the proper time. It was fully
seven minutes to two when you returned, and--'

'That little more,' sighed Psmith, 'and how much is it!'

'Who are you?' snapped Mr Rossiter, turning on him.