"While we were arguing it, the Professor butted in. I'll do him the
justice to say he wasn't perspiring. But he, too, was in the devil
of a hurry to interview you. So I had to play band as before.
"The position was really rather funny. There, by the door, was the
Professor, asking questions hard, and seemingly unaware that Farrell
was anywhere in the room. Here was I, playing faithful Gelert
life-size, but pretty warily, covering Farrell--who, for aught I
knew, had gone to earth under the sofa. I couldn't hear him
breathing--and he's pretty stertorous, as a rule.
"I kept a pretty straight eye on the Professor, somehow, and told him
the facts--that you had sent the money ('Yes, I know,' said he: 'I
got it before leaving Biarritz'): that you had actually gone to that
health-resort in search of him. ('Good God!' said he. 'That's like
old Roddy'--or some words to that effect. You wouldn't let me repeat
'em, just now.) Then he started telling me about this letter he'd
posted at Biarritz, and that it should have arrived, by rights.
'Well, it hasn't,' said I, feeling pretty inhospitable for not asking
him to sit down and have a drink.
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