. . . Well, weakly-and
partly for your sake, Otty--I consented. He said, by the way, he
would be greatly honoured if I'd persuade you to come along too.
'It's Bohemian,' he said; 'if Sir Roderick will overlook it.'
'You told me it was Italian,' said I: 'but never mind. Sir Roderick,
as it happens, is a bit of a Bohemian himself and is dining to-night
with a club of them--the Lost Dogs, if you've ever heard of that
Society.' I saved you, anyway. You may put it that I flung myself
into the breach. They found you, but it was literally over my
prostrate body . . . and here we are."
"Is that the story?" said I.
Jimmy leaned back on his shoulder-blades in the armchair. "It is the
preliminary canter," he announced. "Now we're off, and you watch me
getting into my stride,--
"Farrell turned up, on time. He was somewhat agitated, and I
suspect--yes, in the light of later events I strongly suspect--he had
picked up a drink somewhere on the way. I got into his taxi, and we
swung up Rupert Street, and out of Rupert Street into what the
novelists, when they haven't a handy map or the energy to use it,
describe as a labyrinth leading to questionable purlieus.
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