As Charlie Fitzgerald and he went out past the elephant and the dead stove into the open air, and when they were well out of earshot, Mr. Clutterbuck asked nervously:
"Was that all right, Mr. Fitzgerald?"
For answer Fitzgerald felt in his breast pocket, looked really anxious and said:
"Good God! I forgot to post that letter."
"What letter?" asked Mr. Clutterbuck, a little pale.
"Nothing," said Fitzgerald, "nothing." He walked quickly to a pillar-box a few steps off, and dropped into it the envelope addressed to the United Sons of Endeavour which he should have posted the night before: his omission accounted for much, but he had rectified it and he knew that all would be well.
"It's all right," he said, slogging back, "but I was a big fool to forget it. That's the worst of being an Irishman," he added genially.
Mr. Clutterbuck was quite at sea. "But is it all right, Mr. Fitzgerald?" he insisted.
"It's all right now," said Fitzgerald. He hit his employer fairly in the back, jumped into the car and shouted for home.