"You can help me all right if you will," said Molly. She paused. "Do you remember telling me once about that friend of yours--what's his name?--the boy who is running a motor business in Portriga?" The dawn of an understanding began to flicker across Tony's face. "You mean Jimmy--Jimmy Dale." He paused. "If Jimmy can be of any use you have only got to say so. I am sure he will do anything I ask him short of murdering the President." "It's nothing as difficult as that," said Molly. "I only want him to write me a letter." She bent forward and re-lit her cigarette from Tony's. "You see I want to know exactly what's happening out in Livadia. I am sure there's trouble on, or Peter wouldn't be so upset, and a man actually living in Portriga ought to be able to tell one something." "Jimmy ought to," said Tony. "He is by way of being rather a pal of the President. He sold him a second-hand Rolls-Royce last year for a sort of state coach, and the old boy was so pleased with his bargain he quite took Jimmy up. They seemed to be as thick as thieves last time I had a letter--about three months ago." He paused to finish his champagne. "By the way," he added, "I don't believe I have ever answered it." "You never do answer letters," said Molly. "That's why I always telephone." She got up, and walking across to a small satin-wood bureau, took out a sheet of paper and an envelope. "Be a darling and answer it now," she went on. "Then you can ask what I want at the same time." Tony rose in a leisurely manner from the sofa, and coming up to where she was standing, seated himself in the chair which she had placed in readiness. Then he picked up the pen and examined it with some disapproval. "I shall ink my fingers," he said. "I always do unless I have a Waterman." "Never mind," said Molly. "It's in a good cause, and I'll wash them for you afterwards." Tony gazed thoughtfully at the paper, and then placing his cigarette on the inkstand in front of him bent over the desk and set about his task. Molly returned to the sofa, and for a few minutes except for the scratching of the nib, and an occasional sigh from the writer, a profound silence brooded over the boudoir. At last, with an air of some relief, Tony threw down the pen, and turned round in his chair. "How will this do?" he asked. MY DEAR JAMES: I have been meaning to answer your last letter for several months, but somehow or other I can never settle down to serious work in the early spring. I was very pleased to hear that you are still alive, and mixing in such good society. I have never met any presidents myself, but I always picture them as stout, elderly men with bowler hats and red sashes round their waists. If yours isn't like this, don't tell me. I hate to have my illusions shattered.