Jill, in the Clock Room, was still awake, staring at the ceiling with hot eyes, and Bill, counting sheep in the Henry the Eighth Room, had also failed to find oblivion. The specific recommended by Jeeves might be widely recognized but so far it had done nothing toward enabling him to knit up the ravelled sleeve of care.
"Eight hundred and twenty-two," murmured Bill. "Eight hundred and twenty-three.
Eight hundred and—"
He broke off, leaving the eight hundred and twenty-fourth sheep, an animal with a more than usually vacuous expression on its face, suspended in the air into which it had been conjured up.
Someone had knocked on the door, a knock so soft and deferential that it could have proceeded from the knuckle of only one man. It was consequently without surprise that a moment later he perceived Jeeves entering.
"Your lordship will excuse me," said Jeeves courteously. "I would not have disturbed your lordship, had I not, listening at the door, gathered from your lordship's remarks that the stratagem which I proposed had proved unsuccessful."
"No, it hasn't worked yet," said Bill, "but come in, Jeeves, come in." He would have been glad to see anything that was not a sheep.
"Don't tell me," he said, starting as he noted the gleam of intelligence in his visitor's eye, "that you've thought of something?"
"Yes, m'lord, I am happy to say that I fancy I have found a solution to the problem which confronted us."
"Jeeves, you're a marvel!"
"Thank you very much, m'lord."
"I remember Bertie Wooster saying to me once that there was no crisis which you were unable to handle."
"Mr. Wooster has always been far too flattering, m'lord."
"Nonsense. Not nearly flattering enough. If you have really put your finger on a way of overcoming the superhuman difficulties in our path—"
"I feel convinced that I have, m'lord."
Bill quivered inside his mauve pyjama jacket.
"Think well, Jeeves," he urged.
"Somehow or other we have got to get Mrs.
Spottsworth out of her room for a lapse of time sufficient to enable me to bound in, find that pendant, scoop it up and bound out again, all this without a human eye resting upon me. Unless I have completely misinterpreted your words owing to having suffered a nervous breakdown from counting sheep, you seem to be suggesting that you can do this. How?
That is the question that springs to the lips. With mirrors?"
Jeeves did not speak for a moment. A pained look had come into his finely-chiselled face.
It was as though he had suddenly seen some sight which was occasioning his distress.
"Excuse me, m'lord. I am reluctant to take what is possibly a liberty on my part—"
"Carry on, Jeeves. You have our ear. What is biting you?"
"It is your pyjamas, m'lord. Had I been aware that your lordship was in the habit of sleeping in mauve pyjamas, I would have advised against it.
Mauve does not become your lordship. I was once compelled, in his best interests, to speak in a similar vein to Mr. Wooster, who at that time was also a mauve-pyjama addict."
Bill found himself at a loss.
"How have we got on to the subject of pyjamas?" he asked, wonderingly.
"They thrust themselves on the notice, m'lord. That very aggressive purple. If your lordship would be guided by me and substitute a quiet blue or possibly a light pistachio green—"
"Jeeves!"
"M'lord?"
"This is no time to be prattling of pyjamas."
"Very good m'lord."
"As a matter of fact, I rather fancy myself in mauve. But that, as I say, is neither here nor there. Let us postpone the discussion to a more suitable moment. I will, however, tell you this. If you really have something to suggest with reference to that pendant and that something brings home the bacon, you may take these mauve pyjamas and raze them to the ground and sow salt on the foundations."
"Thank you very much, m'lord."
"It will be a small price to pay for your services. Well, now that you've got me all worked up, tell me more. What's the good news?
What is this scheme of yours?"
"A quite simple one, m'lord. It is based on—"
Bill uttered a cry.
"Don't tell me. Let me guess. The psychology of the individual?"
"Precisely, m'lord."
Bill drew in his breath sharply.
"I thought as much. Something told me that was it. Many a time and oft, exchanging dry Martinis with Bertie Wooster in the bar of the Drones Club, I have listened to him, rapt, as he spoke of you and the psychology of the individual. He said that, once you get your teeth into the psychology of the individual, it's all over except chucking one's hat in the air and doing Spring dances. Proceed, Jeeves. You interest me strangely. The individual whose psychology you have been brooding on at the present juncture is, I take it, Mrs.
Spottsworth? Am I right or wrong, Jeeves?"
"Perfectly correct, m'lord. Has it occurred to your lordship what is Mrs.
Spottsworth's principal interest, the thing uppermost in the lady's mind?"
Bill gaped.
"You haven't come here at two in the morning to suggest that I dance the Charleston with her again?"
"Oh, no, m'lord."
"Well, when you spoke of her principal interest—"
"There is another facet of Mrs.
Spottsworth's character which you have overlooked, m'lord.
I concede that she is an enthusiastic Charleston performer, but what principally occupies her thoughts is psychical research. Since her arrival at the Abbey, she has not ceased to express a hope that she may be granted the experience of seeing the spectre of Lady Agatha. It was that that I had in mind when I informed your lordship that I had formulated a scheme for obtaining the pendant, based on the psychology of the individual."
Bill sank back on the pillows, a disappointed man.
"No, Jeeves," he said. "I won't do it."
"M'lord?"
"I see where you're heading. You want me to dress up in a farthingale and wimple and sneak into Mrs. Spottsworth's room, your contention being that if she wakes and sees me, she will simply say "Ah, the ghost of Lady Adela", and go to sleep again. It can't be done, Jeeves. Nothing will induce me to dress up in women's clothes, not even in such a deserving cause as this one. I might stretch a point and put on the old moustache and black patch."
"I would not advocate it, m'lord.
Even on the racecourse I have observed clients, on seeing your lordship, start back with visible concern. A lady, discovering such an apparition in her room, might quite conceivably utter a piercing scream."
Bill threw his hands up with a despondent groan.
"Well, there you are, then. The thing's off. Your scheme falls to the ground and becomes null and void."
"No, m'lord. Your lordship has not, if I may say so, grasped the substance of the plan I am putting forward. The essential at which one aims is the inducing of Mrs. Spottsworth to leave her room thus rendering it possible for your lordship to enter and secure the pendant. I propose now, with your lordship's approval, to knock on Mrs. Spottsworth's door and request the loan of a bottle of smelling salts."
Bill clutched at his hair.
"You said, Jeeves?"
"Smelling salts, m'lord."
Bill shook his head.
"Counting those sheep has done something to me," he said. My hearing has become affected. It sounded to me just as if you had said "Smelling salts"."
"I did, m'lord. I would explain that I required them in order to restore your lordship to consciousness."
"There again. I could have sworn that I heard you say "restore your lordship to consciousness"."