|DR. PHINEAS MOSSMITE AND WINKLE PICOT, SLEUTHERY AT ITS FINEST|
"I say, Mossmite, things have been damnably quiet since that blasted chap Aardvark folded his tents, took the Bubblows site off the net and hauled ass for Bora Bora about a half step, I should judge, ahead of State and Federal authorities."
"Quiet indeed Picot." replied Dr. Phineas Mossmite. "But it's 'Arvin' and 'Bubblews', not to put to fine a point on it, and we don't know that anyone was actually in pursuit of him."
"Except of course, Mrs. Bilgepump. Bloody bastard was into her for twenty quid when he did a runner. Shouldn't like to be in his shoes when the old dear comes thundering down on him like a rogue elephant with a bide-a-wee thorn up it's arse."
"Indeed." replied Picot, flinching.
"Mossmite old chap, if I may digress for a moment, how is it that two youngish, up to date fellows dwelling in Hoboken in 2017 manage to speak, sound and read like relics from Victorian London?"
"I bring it up because our reader, Mrs. Abigail Potts-Chamberly expressed a certain degree of irritated bafflement regarding our dialogue."
"Well Picot", said Mossmite, producing his pipe, "You've got me. I blame the writer."
"As do we all." said Picot.
There will be yet more singularities. Some of them naked.