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I still lingered. It was only when there came from above a noise like fifty-seven trucks going over a wooden bridge that I felt that an immediate move would be judicious. I rose and soon gathered speed, and I had reached the french window of the drawing-room and was on the point of popping through, when from within there came the sound of a human voice. On second thoughts delete the word ‘human’, for it was the voice of my recent acquaintance with whom I had chatted about camgras.
    I halted. There was a song I used to sing in my bath at one time, the refrain or burthen of which began with the words ‘I stopped and I looked and I listened’, and this was what I did now, except for the looking. It wasn’t raining, nor was there any repetition of the trucks-going-over-a-wooden-bridge noise. It was as though Nature had said to itself ‘Oh to hell with it’ and decided that it was too much trouble to have a thunderstorm after all. So I wasn’t getting struck by lightning or even wet, which enabled me to remain in status quo.
    The camera bloke was speaking to some unseen companion, and what he said was;
    ‘Wooster, his name is. Says he’s Mrs. Travers’s nephew.’
    It was plain that I had arrived in the middle of a conversation. The words must have been preceded by a query, possibly ‘Oh, by the way, do you happen to know who a tall, slender, good-looking - I might almost say fascinating young man I was talking to outside there would be?’, though of course possibly not. That, at any rate, must have been the gist, and I suppose the party of the second part had replied ‘No, sorry, I can’t place him’, or words to that effect. Whereupon the camera chap had spoken as above. And as he spoke as above a snort rang through the quiet room; a voice, speaking with every evidence of horror and disgust, exclaimed ‘Wooster ! ‘; and I quivered from hair-do to shoe sole. I may even have gasped, but fortunately not loud enough to be audible beyond the french window.
    For it was the voice of Lord Sidcup — or, as I shall always think of him, no matter how many titles he may have inherited, as Spode. Spode, mark you, whom I had thought and hoped I had seen the last of after dusting the dust of Totleigh Towers from the Wooster feet; Spode, who went about seeking whom he might devour and from early boyhood had been a hissing and a byword to all right-thinking men. Little wonder that for a moment everything seemed to go black and I had to clutch at a passing rose bush to keep from falling.
    This Spode, I must explain for the benefit of the newcomers who have not read the earlier chapters of my memoirs, was a character whose path had crossed mine many a time and oft, as the expression is, and always with the most disturbing results. I have spoken of the improbability of a beautiful friendship ever get ing under way between me and the camera chap, but the likelihood of any such fusion of souls, as I have heard Jeeves call it, between me and Spode was even more remote. Our views on each other were definite. His was that what England needed if it was to become a land fit for heroes to live in was fewer and better Woosters, while I had always felt that there was nothing wrong with England that a ton of bricks falling from a height on Spode’s head wouldn’t cure.
    ‘You know him? ‘ said the camera chap.
    ‘I’m sorry to say I do,’ said Spode, speaking like Sherlock Holmes asked if he knew Professor Moriarty. ‘How did you happen to meet him?’
    ‘I found him making off with my camera.’
    ‘Hal ‘
    ‘Naturally I thought he was stealing it. But if he’s really Mrs. Travers’s nephew, I suppose I was mistaken.’
    Spode would have none of this reasoning, though it seemed pretty sound to me. He snorted again with even more follow-through than the first time.
    ‘Being Mrs. Travers’s nephew means nothing. If he was the nephew of an archbishop he would behave in a precisely similar manner. Wooster would steal anything