“Come back in an hour, Ferdie.” Then in a grave murmur, “His name is Ferdie.”

“Does the gasoline affect his nose?”

“I don't think so,” she said innocently. “Why?”

We went in. To my overwhelming surprise the living room was deserted.

“Well, that's funny!” I exclaimed.

“What's funny?”

She turned her head as there was a light, dignified knocking at the front door. I went out and opened it. Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes.