Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. “Are you with us?” said the tired woman. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. You did not learn that in a convent. I do not care, but only that you will leave my affairs to me. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel. This was what he missed. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. I think a wife a needless incumbrance, and mean to die a bachelor. This he accomplished by holding the chain that connected them firmly between his teeth, and squeezing his fingers as closely together as possible, succeeded in drawing his wrists through the manacles. Let us have no more of this humbug. “The fact is—I don’t know why—this takes me by surprise. Couldn’t make head nor tail of that note of yours.
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