Having put the letters in his book of fate and girdled it up again, he unlocks the door just in time to admit his dinner, which is brought upon a goodly tray with a decanter of sherry. Mr. Bucket frequently observes, in friendly circles where there is no restraint, that he likes a toothful of your fine old brown East Inder sherry better than anything you can offer him. Consequently, he fills and empties his glass with a smack of his lips and is proceeding with his refreshment when an idea enters his mind.

“What would you like to drink?” I asked. “I can make a fair Martini.”

She had begun to look worried again, but she seemed to shrug it off. She smiled. “A Martini sounds grand.”

I made it five to one, and when she had tasted it she rolled her eyes upward. “While I can still talk there’s something I’d like to tell you,” she said.

I came back with a bourbon and soda and sat down.

I went around the corner to Frascini’s, a restaurant where a lot of newspapermen and politicians and cops hung out. It was crowded, and I had a feeling that people were staring at me, and after a bowl of minestrone, I didn’t want anything more.

“Whatsa matter, you sick?” asked Tony Frascini.

“No, just shaky.”

“Have a grappa. Fix you up.”

“What are you drinking? Lunch is on me.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to get paid.”

“That you are.” I had brought a blank check. “Dry Rob Roy,” I said to the waiter. The menus were already on the table.

“Congratulations,” Arnie said.

“For what?”

“I believe you got married.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Miranda wouldn’t have told him. She was as cozy with information as Cosa Nostra. “How do you know?” I said.

“How do I know? Heck, there was a spread in every newspaper.”

“Yes, there was, wasn’t there?” My drink arrived and I drank it, quickly.

“Burgo, you had better eat your breakfast,” said Sir Cosmo.

“I don’t want any breakfast.” He took, however, a bit of toast, and crumbling it up in his hand as he put a morsel into his mouth, went away to the sideboard and filled for himself a glass of cherry brandy.

“If you don’t eat any breakfast the less of that you take the better,” said Sir Cosmo.

“I’m all right now,” said he.

She laughed as if it weren’t really funny, but there it was.

“Monty and I had a Champagne cocktail or two at a club after the picture and decided we’d do that to Hugh, and then he’d see he was losing me and he’d say “I can’t let you go, you are mine,” and then it wouldn’t matter so much about his mother. Well, we did. We announced to Auntie and the Ripleys that we’d come to an understanding, and . . .  and  . . .

Linda Darrell bit her lip and smiled brightly.

“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed. “Peach brandy and laudanum. You drink this stuff?”

“It’s for my nerves,” Reverend Short said.

A waiter came over and she ordered a double Manhattan.

“Single for me,” I said.

“Bring him a double, she said, smiling at the waiter. “I don’t want to get ahead of him.”

The waiter nodded and withdrew.

We nibbled pretzels and did a little verbal sparring until the waiter came back with the Manhattans. They were both doubles.