. . . I say, Otty," he reproached me, "wake up!
You're not attending."
"On the contrary," I assured him, "I am waiting with some patience
for the explanation you owe me. After dragging me out of bed at one
o'clock in the morning, it's natural, perhaps, you should assume me
to be half-asleep--"
Jimmy broke in with a chuckle. "Poor old Otty! You've been most
awfully decent over this."
"Cut that short," I admonished him. "I am waiting for the story: and
you provide the requisite lightness of touch; but the trouble is, you
don't seem able to provide anything else."
"Don't be stern, Otty," he entreated. "It is past pardon. I know,
and to-morrow--later in the morning, I should say--you'll find that
the defendant feels his position acutely. Honour bright, I'll do you
credit in the dock. . . . Wish I was as sure of Farrell. But, as for
the story, as I am a sober man, I don't know where to begin. There's
a wicked uncle mixed up in it, and a wicked nephew and a taxi, and a
lady with a reticule, and a picture palace, and a water-pipe, and
heaps upon heaps of policemen--they're the worst mixed up of the
lot--"
"Begin at the beginning," I commanded.
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