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He dived at young Mr Waterall's neatly trousered legs as he had dived at other legs, less neatly trousered, thirty years ago. They crashed to the floor together; and with the crash came Mr Birdsey's shout: 'Run! Run, you fool! Run!
Mr Birdsey was profoundly distressed. He sat tingling and helpless. This was a nightmare. Waterall's level voice spoke at the telephone. 'Is this Scotland Yard? I am Waterall, of the New York Chronicle. Is Inspector Jarvis there? Ask him to come to the phone.... Is that you, Jarvis? This is Waterall. I'm speaking from the Savoy, Mr Birdsey's rooms. Birdsey. Listen, Jarvis.
Mr Birdsey was an intelligent man, and he could see that Waterall's table-talk was for some reason getting upon Johnson's nerves. Like a good host, he endeavoured to cut in and make things smooth. 'I've heard great accounts of Algiers, he said helpfully. 'A friend of mine was there in his yacht last year. It must be a delightful spot.
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