“It will hardly be legal if it is signed by Veronica Speedwell, spinster, of the Marylebone parish,” he muttered. “It is not like you to be rude,” I told him in a soothing tone. “I fear you are hungry and it is making you dyspeptic.” “I am not hungry. I am having an apoplexy,” he said, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing at his brow. I peered at his face.
