CHAPTER TWENTY
Trunk Call
“
’Ere,
wake up, sir. Inspector Stanislaus Oates, ’imself and personal, on the phone. Now we shall ’ave a chance of seein’ that lovely dressin’-gown o’ yours. I’ve bin wondering when that was comin’ out.”
Mr Lugg put his head round the door of his master’s room and spoke with heavy jocularity. “ ’E’s bin ringin’ you all day,” he added, assuming a certain amount of truculence to hide his apprehension. “There’s a couple o’ telegrams waitin’. But I didn’t like to rouse yer. Let ’im ’ave ’is beauty sleep, that’s what I said.”
Mr Campion bounded out of bed, looking oddly rakish in the afternoon light. “Good Heavens,” he said, “what’s the time?”
“Calm yerself—calm yerself. ’Alf-past four.” Mr Lugg came forward bearing a chastely coloured silk dressing-gown. “Pul
