Debris was sprawled across the floor. Newspapers were laid open at their fifth page, bearing headlines like 'Fruitless Hunt For Missing Playboy' and 'Two Weeks In – No Leads For Missing Man'; sheets were ripped from notebooks that were obscured by lashings of copperplate scrawls. Dark bohemian man? they said, Left club between 10 and midnight? The collection concealed the kitchen tiles, as though in a torrent of restless thoughts, it had burst from Jeeves' brain. But in pride of place was an article on a broadsheet that lay at his feet as he stood taking it all in numbly: 'Witness in Wooster Hunt Speaks to Police'.

"Do you know this waitress, sir?"

Bingo surveyed the mass of dredged torment before them with an uneasy shiver. He himself poured over every printed word, hoping to find some nuance that would lead him to his friend, but he found them too painful to keep. They referred to Bertie as 'an idle rich' who was last seen 'drinking at a nightclub for the privileged'. "I do," he said at length. "Miss Raisbeck, she's worked at the club all the time I've been there. She is a reliable girl, as far as I can tell."

"You trust her statement, then, sir?"

"Yes." There was a silence, made all the more poignant by the heavy, dark eyes that Jeeves turned on him. "Come Jeeves," he added. "It gives us some hope, doesn't it?"

"Sir, I confess that I envy your ability to be hopeful about the fact that Mr Wooster was last seen on the verge of an altercation with two men who had previously been forcing their company upon him."

"Come, come! Have you thought, perhaps these chappies came to speak to him-"

"To sit either side of him, and one of them to stroke his face as he 'became increasingly nervous', sir?"

"And he found himself about to get in a tricky situation with them and legged it to Paris or something!" Bingo finished. He voice was slightly raised. "What is so peculiar about that? Done it before, hasn't he?" Jeeves looked at him with no expression, but still Bingo felt himself curdling under the gaze. "I'm dashed grateful! To hear this, it means we know he may have chosen to leave. He chose, God dammit, HE CHOSE," he ended in a roar, throwing his arms up uncontrollably as though his nerves rebelled suddenly against the tension. Two weeks of not knowing.

Jeeves awaited the aftermath calm. Mr Little clutched at his hair, his face lined, his eyes reddened. "I am sorry, sir. I know you are greatly distressed about these events."

"I miss him, damn it," hissed Bingo. He met the monochrome eyes of the adolescent Bertie at his feet. "We were at school together... My best pal in the world, I -"

"Yes, sir," said Jeeves, and his voice was darker. They held each other's eyes; in recent days the class-divide had thinned almost to transparency.

"I love him, Jeeves," said Bingo. "And I'm not ashamed to say it."

A stab pierced Jeeves' heart, but he merely closed his eyes.

"I know it must disgust you," Bingo went on. "At Eton, the... the sex was pretty much taken for granted, there were no girls, you had to. But you could never love each other, you see? You had to let everyone know that it was..."

"Ersatz, sir?"

"Yes. Otherwise you were... perverted. But Bertie and I loved each other like brothers before we went to Eton. All the sex, it was just this way we had of comforting each other, there was never anything lustful about it. What I'm trying to say, is that you mustn't resent us for it. I know I'm married. And I dread to think about romance with anyone but my wife. Sometimes when she goes off on trips to her publishers, or goes somewhere to research a story, I can't help it. I feel alone, and Bertie's the only one whose love can make me better, like it did at school, when I missed my parents. And then sometimes he needs me, and I can never refuse him. He's just so innocent and – beautiful."

"Yes," said Jeeves. "Yes he is." Mr Little's words were not entirely comforting, though: the shadows of these men hung over the room like imprints on Jeeves' soul.

"Have I disgusted you?"

Jeeves shook his head. "No, sir. Despite my views on extra-marital relations, I understand the comfort you speak of, and I am immensely grateful that Mr Wooster has someone who can provide him with it. I do hope you will forgive my churlishness on the matter, I do not myself, disapprove of homosexuality. That said, society does, and reform does not seem to be on the horizon. Mr Wooster is also very dear to me, and I would hate to think that he should be subject to the bigoted criticism of society."

"You mean, if he were to be – indiscreet?"

"Precisely, sir. Mr Wooster is given to show his feelings openly. If I may make so bold, sir, I have feared that as you withdraw this affection from him, due to your marriage, he will publicly try to seek it elsewhere. This may well lead to unnecessary anguish and heartache on his part."

Both men were quiet for a long time. Then Bingo said, "Do you think he's alive?" His voice cracked. No-one had said the words before. They made Jeeves' blood run cold, as though a body had been unveiled before his eyes.

"These men were described by the waitress as seeming, at first very strange and finally, extremely angry, sir," said after a moment's thought. That said, in my heart, I believe in Mr Wooster." His eyes tripped over the paper, resting on a line in his own hand: Waitress – left the club nervously, pursued moments later by two men. Dark man familiar to her. Club member.

The summer city sweltered. Jeeves' starched collar wilted by lunch and a permanent smog seemed to seep up through his eyes. Slowly the relentless performance of his duties ceased to comfort him, and now to stare at the absent form of his young master seated at the table pressed a wound in his chest. Lower and lower became his mumbles of "Thank you, sir" and "Goodnight, sir" as he turned off the gaslights, the silence that followed them growing louder by the day.

He took to walking by the Drones Club at night. Scanning the faces of everyone who entered or left, he could find none who looked 'bohemian' as he understood the term. These men were perhaps wild in their habits, but kept orderly by teams of men such as himself – all had cut hair and shaved faces, and none wore velvet. It was no use, of course. The police had interviewed every single man on the premises, and none could testify to either seeing a stranger that night, or to knowing a member of that description, but Jeeves walked by more and more. The emptiness of the flat almost stifled him. The waitress had a fleeting moment in the spotlight, then yielded no more information. She had served the three gentlemen two rounds of drinks, she thought, and they left possibly at half past ten.

Everything was suffocating, everything was vicarious, everything was painful and pointless, until the telegram came.

It had no name. It had been sent from a post office on the other side of London, fifteen miles away and it said only this:

Come to 60 Albion Street and look down. Come at night. STAY AWAY FROM HOUSE.