Or, "I don't think you have ever met Henry Barton, the cricketer. He is very keen on meeting you. Apparently he has seen you play somewhere. He will be turning out for us on Friday.
"P.P.S.—We might manage to have some bridge in the train."
"That," I said to Henry, "is what I call a clever letter."
"What makes you think that?"
"It is all clever," I said modestly. "But the cleverest part is a sentence at the end. 'I will give you all particulars about trains later on.' You see I have been looking them up, and we leave Victoria at seven-thirty A.M. and get back to London Bridge at eleven-forty-five P.M."
The answers began to come in the next day. One of the first was from Bolton, the solicitor, and it upset us altogether. For, after accepting the invitation, he went on: "I am afraid I don't play bridge. As you may remember, I used to play chess at Cambridge, and I still keep it up."
"Chess," said Henry. "That's where White plays and mates in two moves. And there's a Black too. He does something."
"We shall have to get a Black. This is awful."
"Perhaps Bolton would like to do problems by himself all the time."
"That would be rather bad luck on him. No, look here. Here's Carey. Glad to come, but doesn't bridge. He's the man."