The telephone rang in the stately home of Lord Armstrong in North Yorkshire, England and his butler answered the call.
‘It’s me. Please go to my wife’s bedroom and tell her that I’ll be home late from the club.’ I’m sorry, M'lord, her ladyship is already asleep.’
‘Then wake her and tell her, while I hold the ‘phone,’ the caller demanded.
A few minutes later, the butler returned to the phone and reported, ‘My Lord, I tried my best. I shot the man, but your wife dived out the window to the garden before I could shoot her as well.’
'To the garden? What garden?’
‘The one adjacent to her room, my lord.’
'Sorry about that, I think I have the wrong number.'