"Troubles never come singly, do they, Force?" said Bingle as they mounted the stairs. He sighed deeply.
"So they say," said Force, also sighing. He was thinking of the interview that was to come. He was wondering just how he was going to explain things to Mr. Bingle.
"She isn't to be married till spring, but—Oh, well, I suppose I shouldn't complain." Mr. Force stopped stock-still on the stairs. "Mar-married?" he gasped. "Are you crazy?"
"Almost," said Mr. Bingle promptly. "If anything more happens, I'll be wholly so. Come in, Force. Now, old chap, what's on YOUR mind?" They had entered the study. Mr. Bingle faced his visitor after closing the door carefully behind him. "Out with it? Don't keep me in suspense. 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."