the flat with a novel.

He was deep in this, when there was the sound of a key in the latch,
and shortly afterwards Psmith entered the room. On Psmith's brow there
was a look of pensive care, and also a slight discoloration. When he
removed his overcoat, Mike saw that his collar was burst and hanging
loose and that he had no tie. On his erstwhile speckless and gleaming
shirt front were number of finger-impressions, of a boldness and
clearness of outline which would have made a Bertillon expert leap with
joy.

'Hullo!' said Mike dropping his book.

Psmith nodded in silence, went to his bedroom, and returned with a
looking-glass. Propping this up on a table, he proceeded to examine
himself with the utmost care. He shuddered slightly as his eye fell on
the finger-marks; and without a word he went into his bathroom again.
He emerged after an interval of ten minutes in sky-blue pyjamas,
slippers, and an Old Etonian blazer. He lit a cigarette; and, sitting
down, stared pensively into the fire.

'What the dickens have you been playing at?' demanded Mike.

Psmith heaved a sigh.

'That,' he replied, 'I could not say precisely. At one moment it seemed
to be Rugby football, at another a jiu-jitsu _seance_. Later, it
bore a resemblance to a pantomime rally. However, whatever it was, it
was all very bright and interesting. A distinct experience.'