The Club was of opinion that such quibbling was unworthy of a gentleman.
It appeared to be a case for prompt action. Jack Herring sat down and then and there began a letter to Miss Bulstrode, care of Mrs. Postwhistle.
“But what I don’t understand—” said Alexander the Poet.
“Oh! take him away somewhere and tell him, someone,” moaned Jack Herring. “How can I think with all this chatter going on?”
“But why did Bennett—” whispered Porson.
“Where is Bennett?” demanded half a dozen fierce voices.
Harry Bennett had not been seen all day.
Jack’s letter was delivered to “Miss Bulstrode” the next morning at breakfast-time. Having perused it, Miss Bulstrode rose and requested of Mrs. Postwhistle the loan of half a crown.
“Mr. Herring’s particular instructions were,” explained Mrs. Postwhistle, “that, above all things, I was not to lend you any money.”
“When you have read that,” replied Miss Bulstrode, handing her the letter, “perhaps you will agree with me that Herring is—an ass.”