Justice Done

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We were playing billiards late one June evening when Digby, that most excellent butler, let my host know that he had a caller. I glanced at the mantel clock and raised my brows. It was just past eleven.

“Wishy?” Bunny asked, calmly completing his shot.

“Yes, sir,” Digby replied.

“Slye,” I protested, “how could you possibly know-”

“Few other people would come to visit me at this hour, Max, and fewer still would manage to persuade Digby to let them in. And only one or two of those would ruffle Digby’s feathers.”

“Not at all, sir,” said Digby, eyeing him as only a servant who has known one from one’s diaper days may do.

A voice halloed from the hallway outside the door. “Bunny! You in there, Bunny?”

Digby’s nostrils flared.

“It’s all right, Digby,” said Slye. “Aloysius is untrainable.”

“Yes, sir,” the butler replied with deep feeling.

Anyone who had not previously met Aloysius Hanslow might be forgiven for imagining that the man who burst into the billiards room at that moment had come directly from a stage play about Sherlock Holmes, one in which he had the starring role. He was dressed in a deerstalker and caped coat, his clothing more suited to London three decades ago than to the country estate of a wealthy New York family.

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