Has--has the case finally gone against me?"

"Who is going to be married in the spring?" demanded Force, wiping his
brow.

"Miss Fairweather. I thought you knew."

"Oh, the devil! Of course not! What do I know about Miss Fairweather's
affairs?"

"Flanders is the man. He's the lucky dog. An old affair, Force.
Tremendously romantic story back of--"

"Needn't mind, Bingle. I don't care to hear it at present. I've got
something a great deal more important to think about--dammit." He sat
down heavily, and began fumbling for his cigar case. His forehead was
dripping wet.

"It must be serious," said Mr. Bingle slowly, "or you wouldn't be
swearing as you do, Force. I've never heard you swear before."

"It is serious. Of all the improbable, dime novel, hellish--But tell
me, Bingle: how much do you know?"

"How much do I know about what?"

"Didn't that fellow blab anything to you last night?"

"Bla--blab?"