“I don’t know what I said,” said George wearily. “I know I damned near died there and then. I tried to explain it was fraud: but she said that was all rot, and that it often happened, and that all I had to do was to give the money back.”
“How—how many tickets had you sold?” said Julia tearfully.
“Over six hundred,” said Fulke. “Half of them haven’t seen their money—never will see it. I don’t know where they are. I tell you, complete strangers came in on the deal. I’m afraid to go abroad. . . . Well, that sort of thing’s learned me. I like to know where I am and where I come in.”
“But I can’t say I’ll marry you, George. I’m engaged to Hubert.”
Fulke handed the papers back.
“Sorry,” he said, “but this is no ordinary job. If you wanted me to take you to Goodwood or Lords or The Zoo or something like that, I should be tickled to death. But I’m not giving any more pints of my blood away.”
“George,” pleaded Julia, “you’re not going to let me down.”
“I shouldn’t think of such a thing,” said Fulke. “But I’m not going to help you out of one preserve into another. It’s not good enough. You seem to forget I love you.”
“But if the ring isn’t found I shall have to marry him. D’you want me to do that?”
George shrugged his shoulders.