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."

"Yes, sir."

"You are not so much to blame as I thought."

"No, sir."

There was a silence.

"Anyhow," said Ukridge in inspired tones, "I'll go and slay that
infernal dog. I'll teach him to tear my door to pieces. Where's your
gun, Beale?"

But better counsels prevailed, and the proceedings closed with a cold
but pleasant little dinner, at which the spared mongrel came out
unexpectedly strong with ingenious and diverting tricks.



CHAPTER V