Money in the Bank by P. G. Wodehouse Page B

me to watch her butler, whose conduct has been arousing suspicion. So when we fetch up at the Hall, will you remember that my name is Sheringham Adair."
    Lionel Green's sombre eyes lit up with a stern joy. "You mean you have wormed your way into the house under a false name?"
    "I dislike the word 'wormed,' but you cover the facts."
    "I'll have you kicked out the moment we get there."
    Jeff nodded.
    "I had anticipated that some such project would have occurred to you, for I see that you are in difficult mood. But there is no terror, Stinker, in your threats, for I am armed so strong in honesty that they pass by me as the idle wind, which I respect not. Weren't you listening have to explain. I'm afraid what I am going to tell you will come as something of a shock. In engaging me to watch her butler. Mrs. Cork made it clear that that would be only part of my duties. I am to keep an eye on you, also."
    "On me? What do you mean?"
    "She suspects you of having fallen into the toils of her secretary, a young person of the name, I believe, of Benedick. And she intends to stop it in no uncertain manner."
    The belligerence faded from Lionel Green's demeanour, leaving him deflated. As Jeff had predicted, this item of news had affected him powerfully.
    He gazed at his companion wide-eyed, his shapely jaw drooping like a lily on its stem. The fear that had been haunting him for weeks had been proved to possess a solid foundation. Something had revealed the position of affairs to his lynx-eyed aunt, and she had begun, at the worst possible moment, to sit up and take notice. Another day or two, he was thinking bitterly, and he would have been safe.
    In stating that her nephew was entirely dependent upon her, Mrs. Cork had spoken the exact truth. It was from her that he received the handsome allowance which enabled him to eat well, dress well, smoke well, belong to the Junior Arts Club and go about in taxi-cabs like that of the neurotic Ernest Pennefather. She also financed the microscopic interior decorator's shop in the Brompton Road, where he sold an occasional olde-worlde chair or Spanish altar cloth to personal friends of his Oxford days.
    At any time, her displeasure would have worn a portentous aspect, but circumstances had so arranged themselves at the present moment as to render it particularly lethal. He had recently been given the opportunity of buying a partnership in a larger and really prosperous shrine of interior decorating, that conducted by his friend Mr. Tarvin, situated in a more fashionable neighbourhood and catering rather to the great public than to a handful of ex-college chums imbued with the spirit of Auld Lang Syne.
    It was to plead with Mrs. Cork, whom he had already approached with regard to providing the sum he required, that he had forced himself now to visit Shipley Hall. His spirits had sunk at the thought of going there, for he was a young man who preferred, like Mrs. Molloy, to know, when he sat down to dinner, that something would be coming along that would be worthy of his steel. But he was prepared to undergo privations, convinced that a little earnest persuasion would enable him to consummate the deal.
    Everything depended on it. With the partnership signed and sealed, he would be in a position to announce his engagement to Anne; to defy Mrs. Cork—preferably, of course, over the telephone; in short, to take a strong and independent line. But if his aunt's woman's intuition had led her to suspect, failure and disaster stared him in the eye.
    "I don't suppose, of course, that there is anything in it," continued Jeff, "but that is what she thinks, and it would be best if you were to avoid this Miss Benedick's society as much as possible, while you are at Shipley Hall. It is always wisest on these occasions to leave no loophole for criticism. Well, you see now what I meant when I spoke of our interests being bound up together. Pursue that impulsive plan of yours of getting me kicked out, and what happens?