“I thought you said it was two hundred quid that Bingham was offering.” “I get a hundred,” said Ukridge, dreamily. “The only flaw is, the letter doesn’t give the other man’s name. How is Billson to know it’s Tod Bingham?” “Why, damme, laddie, do use your intelligence. Billson isn’t going to sit and yawn when he gets that letter. He’ll buzz straight down to Kennington and ask Flossie.” “And then she will give the whole thing away.” “No, she won’t. I slipped her a couple of quid to promise she wouldn’t. And that reminds me, old man, it has left me a bit short, so if you could possibly manage——” “Good night,” I said. “But, laddie——” “And God bless you,” I added, firmly. The Shoreditch Empire is a roomy house, but it was crowded to the doors when I reached it on the Saturday night. In normal circumstances I suppose there would always have been a large audience on a Saturday, and this evening the lure of Tod Bingham’s personal appearance had drawn more than capacity. In return for my shilling I was accorded the privilege of standing against the wall at the back, a position from which I could not see a great deal of the performance. From the occasional flashes which I got of the stage between the heads of my neighbours, however, and from the generally restless and impatient attitude of the audience I gathered that I was not missing much. The programme of the Shoreditch Empire that week was essentially a one-man affair. The patrons had the air of suffering the preliminary acts as unavoidable obstacles that stand between them and the head-liner. It was Tod Bingham whom they had come to see, and they were not cordial to the unfortunate serio-comics, tramp cyclists, jugglers, acrobats, and ballad singers who intruded themselves during the earlier part of the evening. The cheer that arose as the curtain fell on a dramatic sketch came from the heart, for the next number on the programme was that of the star. A stout man in evening dress with a red handkerchief worn ambassadorially athwart his shirt-front stepped out from the wings. “Ladies and gentlemen!” “’Ush!” cried the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen!” A Voice: “Good ole Tod!” (“Cheese it!”) “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the ambassador for the third time. He scanned the house apprehensively. “Deeply regret have unfortunate disappointment to announce. Tod Bingham unfortunately unable to appear before you to-night.” A howl like the howl of wolves balked of their prey or of an amphitheatre full of Roman citizens on receipt of the news that the supply of lions had run out greeted these words. We stared at each other with a wild surmise. Could this thing be, or was it not too thick for human belief? “Wot’s the matter with ’im?” demanded the gallery, hoarsely. “Yus, wot’s the matter with ’im?” echoed we of the better element on the lower floor. The ambassador sidled uneasily towards the prompt entrance. He seemed aware that he was not a popular favourite.