“I have an idea, laddie,” he whispered, “that old Tuppy is a trifle peeved at my bringing Flossie along. If you get a chance, you might just murmur to him that it was military necessity.” “Who is she?” I asked. “I told you about her. Flossie, the barmaid at the Crown in Kennington. Billson’s _fiancée_.” I looked at him in amazement. “Do you mean to tell me that you’re courting death by flirting with Battling Billson’s girl?” “My dear old man, nothing like that,” said Ukridge, shocked. “The whole thing is, I’ve got a particular favour to ask of her—rather a rummy request—and it was no good springing it on her in cold blood. There had to be a certain amount of champagne in advance, and my funds won’t run to champagne. I’m taking her on to the Alhambra after dinner. I’ll look you up to-night and tell you all about it.” We then proceeded to dine. It was not one of the pleasantest meals of my experience. The future Mrs. Billson prattled agreeably throughout, and Ukridge assisted her in keeping the conversation alive; but the shattered demeanour of George Tupper would have taken the sparkle out of any banquet. From time to time he pulled himself together and endeavoured to play the host, but for the most part he maintained a pale and brooding silence; and it was a relief when Ukridge and his companion rose to leave. “Well!——” began George Tupper in a strangled voice, as they moved away down the aisle. I lit a cigar and sat back dutifully to listen. Ukridge arrived in my rooms at midnight, his eyes gleaming through their pince-nez with a strange light. His manner was exuberant. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m glad you think so.” “Did you explain to Tuppy?” “I didn’t get a chance. He was talking too hard.” “About me?” “Yes. He said everything I’ve always felt about you, only far, far better than I could ever have put it.” Ukridge’s face clouded for a moment, but cheerfulness returned. “Oh, well, it can’t be helped. He’ll simmer down in a day or two. It had to be done, laddie. Life and death matter. And it’s all right. Read this.” I took the letter he handed me. It was written in a scrawly hand. “What’s this?” “Read it, laddie. I think it will meet the case.” I read. “‘_Wilberforce_.’” “Who on earth’s Wilberforce?” “I told you that was Billson’s name.” “Oh, yes.” I returned to the letter. Wilberforce,— “I take my pen in hand to tell you that I can never be yours. You will no doubt be surprised to hear that I love another and a better man, so that it can never be. He loves me, and he is a better man than you. “Hoping this finds you in the pink as it leaves me at present, “Yours faithfully, “Florence Burns.” “I told her to keep it snappy,” said Ukridge.