“It has to do with Mr. Worple, sir.” “What about him?” “Mr. Worple,” said the butler, gravely, “must go. I do not like his laugh, sir.” “Eh?” “It is too hearty, sir. It would not have done for the Duke.” Bradbury Fisher was an easy-going man, but he belonged to a free race. For freedom his fathers had fought and, if he had heard the story correctly, bled. His eyes flashed. “Oh!” he cried. “Oh, indeed!” “Yes, sir.” “Is zat so?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, let me tell you something, Bill--” “My name is Hildebrand, sir.” “Well, let me tell you, whatever your scarlet name is, that no butler is going to boss me in my own home. You can darned well go yourself.” “Very good, sir.” Vosper withdrew like an ambassador who has received his papers; and presently there was a noise without like hens going through a hedge, and Mrs. Fisher plunged in. “Bradbury,” she cried, “are you mad? Of course Mr. Worple must go if Vosper says so. Don’t you realise that Vosper will leave us if we don’t humour him?” “I should worry about him leaving!” A strange, set look came into Mrs. Fisher’s face. “Bradbury,” she said, “if Vosper leaves us, I shall die. And, what is more, just before dying I shall get a divorce. Yes, I will.” “But, darling,” gasped Bradbury, “Rupert Worple! Old Rupie Worple! We’ve been friends all our lives.” “I don’t care.” “We were freshers at Sing-Sing together.” “I don’t care.” “We were initiated into the same Frat, the dear old Cracka-Bitta-Rock, on the same day.” “I don’t care. Heaven has sent me the perfect butler, and I’m not going to lose him.” There was a tense silence. “Ah, well!” said Bradbury Fisher with a deep sigh. That night he broke the news to Rupert Worple. “I never thought,” said Rupert Worple sadly, “when we sang together on the glee-club at the old Alma Mater, that it would ever come to this.” “Nor I,” said Bradbury Fisher. “But so it must be. You wouldn’t have done for the Duke, Rupie, you wouldn’t have done for the Duke.” “Good-bye, Number 8,097,564,” said Rupert Worple in a low voice. “Good-bye, Number 8,097,565,” whispered Bradbury Fisher. And with a silent hand-clasp the two friends parted. * * * * * With the going of Rupert Worple a grey cloud seemed to settle upon the glowing radiance of Bradbury Fisher’s life. Mrs. Lora Smith Maplebury duly arrived; and, having given a series of penetrating sniffs as he greeted her in the entrance-hall, dug herself in and settled down to what looked like the visit of a lifetime. And then, just as Bradbury’s cup seemed to be full to overflowing, Mrs. Fisher drew him aside one evening. “Bradbury,” said Mrs. Fisher. “I have some good news for you.” “Is your mother leaving?” asked Bradbury eagerly. “Of course not. I said good news. I am taking up golf again.” Bradbury Fisher clutched at the arms of his chair, and an ashen pallor spread itself over his clean-cut face. “What did you say?” he muttered.