"I don't know, sir. It all depends on the young lady."

"Mr. Finch has gone out with a young lady?"

"No, sir. Just gone to look at one."

"To look at one?" The author of the Booklets clicked his tongue once more. "You are drivelling, Mullett. Never drivel—it is dissipation of energy."

"It's quite true, Mr. Beamish. He has never spoken to this young lady—only looked at her."

"Explain yourself."

"Well, sir, it's like this. I'd noticed for some time past that Mr. Finch had been getting what you might call choosey about his clothes...."

"What do you mean, choosey?"

"Particular, sir."

"Then say particular, Mullett. Avoid jargon. Strive for the Word Beautiful. Read my booklet on Pure English. Well?"

"Particular about his clothes, sir, I noticed Mr. Finch had been getting. Twice he had started out in blue with the invisible pink twill and then suddenly stopped at the door of the elevator and gone back and changed into the dove-grey. And his ties, Mr. Beamish. There was no satisfying him. So I said to myself 'Hot dog!'"

"You said what?"

"Hot dog, Mr. Beamish."

"And why did you use this revolting expression?"

"What I meant was, sir, that I reckoned I knew what was at the bottom of all this."

"And were you right in this reckoning?"

A coy look came into Mullett's face.

"Yes, sir. You see, Mr. Finch's behaviour having aroused my curiosity, I took the liberty of following him one afternoon. I followed him to Seventy-Ninth Street, East, Mr. Beamish."

"And then?"

"He walked up and down outside one of those big houses there, and presently a young lady came out. Mr. Finch looked at her, and she passed by. Then Mr. Finch looked after her and sighed and came away. The next afternoon I again took the 

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