"Mr. Bickersteth is the son of his grace's late sister, sir, who
married Captain Rollo Bickersteth of the Coldstream Guards."

Jeeves knows everything.

"Is Mr. Bickersteth's father dead, too?"

"Yes, sir."

"Leave any money?"

"No, sir."

I began to understand why poor old Bicky was always more or less on the
rocks. To the casual and irreflective observer, if you know what I
mean, it may sound a pretty good wheeze having a duke for an uncle, but
the trouble about old Chiswick was that, though an extremely wealthy
old buster, owning half London and about five counties up north, he was
notoriously the most prudent spender in England. He was what American
chappies would call a hard-boiled egg. If Bicky's people hadn't left
him anything and he depended on what he could prise out of the old
duke, he was in a pretty bad way. Not that that explained why he was
hunting me like this, because he was a chap who never borrowed money.
He said he wanted to keep his pals, so never bit any one's ear on
principle.

At this juncture the door bell rang. Jeeves floated out to answer it.

"Yes, sir. Mr. Wooster has just returned," I heard him say. And Bicky