"Let me look at that, Bolt—um—typewritten—posted at 6.30 p.m. That’s the time all bills are posted; chuck it in the fire." "Better open it, m’lord—might be a director’s fee." Tuppy shook his head sadly. "Not likely—still open it." So Hal’s proposal came before his lordship. "Dear Tuppy," read the man. "Who the devil ’Tuppies’ me on a typewriter?" demanded the peer. The servant turned to the signature. "Hal Tailor," he read. "Tanneur," corrected Tuppy, "he’s the sort of cove who _would_ Tuppy me on a typewriter—go on." "DEAR TUPPY,— "I’ve got a great scheme for you. The governor will let you have a house rent free—" "I’ll bet there’s something wrong with the house," said Tuppy uncharitably. "—if you don’t mind living in Suburbia." Tuppy sat bolt upright. "Where," he asked. "In Suburbia," repeated Bolt. Tuppy rose and pushed back his chair. "Bolt," he said solemnly, "it’s a shade of odds on this being a scheme of dowager’s to get me out of the country. Bolt—I’ll not go. I’ll see this Tanner man to the devil before I expatriate myself!" "Beg pardon m’lord——" But Tuppy stopped him with an uncompromising hand. "It’s no bet, Bolt. Here we are and here we’ll stay. Blessed gracious!" he swore fiercely. "I would sooner pay my rent _here_!" "I was going to say, m’lord," said the patient Bolt, "that he means the suburbs. Brixton an’ Clapham an’ Tootin’ Bec an’ that sort of thing." Tuppy looked at him suspiciously. "Where is Tooting Bec and that sort of thing?" he demanded. "Near Wandsworth Prison," began Bolt. "What! Then I won’t go—I _won’t_ go, Bolt." Tuppy was considerably agitated. "It’s a rotten idea; a house rent free, d’ye see, Bolt? it’s this demmed Tanneur person’s gentle hint ... a paltry matter of three hundred pounds"—he paced the room furiously—"that’s the scheme—the dowager is behind all this—oh woman, woman!" He apostrophized the ceiling. "Better finish the letter, m’lord." "Chuck it in the fire, Bolt; chuck it in!" Bolt quickly skimmed the letter and mastered its contents. "It’s in Brockley, m’lord," he said quickly. "Chuck it in the fire—where’s Brockley." "On the main road to Folkestone," said the diplomatic Bolt. "Main road to Folkestone is half-way to the Continent," said Tuppy explosively, "chuck it in the fire!" "He said he’ll allow you £500 for upkeep, m’lord." "Eh." Tuppy stopped in his stride. "Five hundred," he hesitated, "that’s a lot of money—there’ll be some shootin’." "Certain to be, m’lord." "An’ people?" "Yes, m’lord." Tuppy shook his head doubtingly. "I’ve never heard of anybody livin’ at Brockley—I knew a chap who lived at Harrogate, poor chap with one lung." Tuppy thought. "Five hundred _and_ shooting—any fishin’?" "The river’s close by, m’lord—there’s Greenwich——" Tuppy brightened up. "Greenwich! of course, whitebait. Must be devilish amusin’ fishin’ for whitebait: you eat ’em with brown bread, you know, like oysters——"