You--er----?
DENNIS. I just came in, Mr. Norwood.
NORWOOD. You know my name?
DENNIS. Oh yes, I've heard a good deal about you, Mr. Cyril Norwood.
NORWOOD (stiffly). I don't think I've had the pleasure of--er----
DENNIS (winningly). Oh, but I'm sure you must have heard a good deal
about _me_.
NORWOOD. Good God, you don't mean----
DENNIS. I do, indeed. (With a bow) Dennis Camberley, the missing
husband. (Pleadingly) You _have_ heard about me, _haven't_ you?
NORWOOD. I--er--Mr. Camberley, yes, of course. So you're back?
DENNIS. Yes, I'm back. Sometimes they don't come back, Mr. Norwood,
and sometimes--they do. . . . Even after four years. . . . But you _did_
talk about me sometimes?
NORWOOD. How did you know my name?
DENNIS. A little bird told me about you.
NORWOOD (turning away in anger). Pooh!
DENNIS. One of those little Eastern birds, which sit on the backs of
crocodiles, searching for--well, let us say, breakfast. He said to me
one morning: "Talking of parasites," he said, "do you know Mr. Cyril
Norwood?" he said, "because I could tell you an interesting story
about him," he said, "if you care to--"
NORWOOD (wheeling round furiously). Look here, sir, we'd better have
it out quite plainly.
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