neglected. I seemed to see myself sitting in a deck-chair on the lawn, smoking and looking through the trees at the harbour below. It was a spot, I felt, in which it would be an easy and a pleasant task to shape the plot of my novel. I was glad I had come. About now, outside my lodgings in town, a particularly foul barrel-organ would be settling down to work. 

 "Oh, there you are, Beale," said Ukridge, as the servitor appeared. "Now then, what have you to say?" 

 The hired man looked thoughtful for a moment, then said that it was a fine evening. 

 "Fine evening?" shouted Ukridge. "What on earth has that got to do with it? I want to know why you and Mrs. Beale were out when we arrived." 

 "The missus went to Axminster, Mr. Ukridge, sir." 

 "She had no right to go to Axminster. It isn't part of her duties to go gadding about to Axminster. I don't pay her enormous sums to go to Axminster. You knew I was coming this evening." 

 "No, sir." 

 "What!" 

 "No, sir." 

 "Beale," said Ukridge with studied calm, the strong man repressing himself. "One of us two is a fool." 

 "Yes, sir." 

 "Let us sift this matter to the bottom. You got my letter?" 

 "No, sir." 

 "My letter saying that I should arrive to-day. You didn't get it?" 

 "No, sir." 

 "Now, look here, Beale, this is absurd. I am certain that that letter was posted. I remember placing it in my pocket for that purpose. It is not there now. See. These are all the contents of my—well, I'm hanged." 

 He stood looking at the envelope which he had produced from his breast-pocket. A soft smile played over Mr. Beale's wooden face. He coughed. 

 "Beale," said Ukridge, "you—er—there seems to have been a mistake." 

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