“ What do you mean—imposture? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Psmith waggled his forefinger at him reproachfully.
“ My dear Comrade, I may as well tell you at once that the genuine McTodd is an old and dear friend of mine. I had a long and entertaining conversation with him only a few days ago. So that, I think we may confidently assert, is that. Or am I wrong?”
“ Oh, hell!” said the young man. And, flopping bonelessly into a chair, he mopped his forehead in undisguised and abject collapse.
Silence reigned for awhile.
“ What,” inquired the visitor, raising a damp face that shone pallidly in the dim light, “are you going to do about it?”
“ Nothing, Comrade—by the way, what is your name?”
“ Cootes.”
“ Nothing, Comrade Cootes. Nothing whatever. You are free to l
