“George will be at home, I should think,” Lockwood said easily. “Probably making one of his chicken-and-sweetcorn pies. He’s really very domesticated.” Sir Rupert smiled approvingly. “Sounds scrumptious. I must pop round to Portland Row sometime.” “Please do,” Lockwood said. “I’d love that.” “Good night, then.” “Good night.” We pattered swiftly down the steps and set off up the Strand. “One day,” Lockwood said, “I’m clearly going to have to kill him. Not now, but sometime soon.”
