Sam left the room, and Willoughby Braddock, following him at some little distance, for his old friend seemed disinclined for company and conversation, heard the front door bang. He sat down on the stairs and began to put on his shoes, which he had cached on the first landing. While he was engaged in this task, the front doorbell rang. He went down to open it, one shoe off and one shoe on, and found on the steps an aged gentleman with a white beard. “Is Mr. Shotter here?” asked the aged gentleman. “Just gone round next door. Mr. Cornelius, isn’t it? I expect you’ve forgotten me--Willoughby Braddock. I met you for a minute or two when I was staying with Mr. Wrenn.” “Ah, yes. And how is the world using you, Mr. Braddock?” Willoughby was only too glad to tell him. A confidant was precisely what in his exalted frame of mind he most desired. “Everything’s absolutely topping, thanks. What with burglars floating in every two minutes and Lord Tilbury getting de-bagged and all that, life’s just about right. And my housekeeper is leaving me.” “I am sorry to hear that.” “I wasn’t. What it means is that now I shall at last be able to buzz off and see life. Have all sorts of adventures, you know. I’m frightfully keen on adventure.” “You should come and live in Valley Fields, Mr. Braddock. There is always some excitement going on here.” “Yes, you’re not far wrong. Still, what I meant was more the biffing off on the out-trail stuff. I’m going to see the world. I’m going to be one of those fellows Kipling writes about. I was talking to a chap of that sort at the club the other day. He said he could remember Uganda when there wasn’t a white man there.” “I can remember Valley Fields when it had not a single cinema house.” “This fellow was once treed by a rhinoceros for six hours.” “A similar thing happened to a Mr. Walkinshaw, who lived at Balmoral, in Acacia Road. He came back from London one Saturday afternoon in a new tweed suit, and his dog, failing to recognise him, chased him on to the roof of the summer house.... Well, I must be getting along, Mr. Braddock. I promised to read extracts from my history of Valley Fields to Mr. Shotter. Perhaps you would care to hear them too.” “I should love it, but I’ve got to dash off and dine with my Aunt Julia.” “Some other time perhaps?” “Absolutely.... By the way, that man I was telling you about. He was as near as a toucher bitten by a shark once.” “Nothing to what happens in Valley Fields,” said Mr. Cornelius patriotically. “The occupant of the Firs at the corner of Buller Street and Myrtle Avenue--a Mr. Phillimore--perhaps you have heard of him?” “No.” “Mr. Edwin Phillimore. Connected with the firm of Birkett, Birkett, Birkett, Son, Podmarsh, Podmarsh & Birkett, the solicitors.” “What about him?” “Last summer,” said Mr. Cornelius, “he was bitten by a guinea pig.” CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE MR. CORNELIUS READS HIS HISTORY § 1