"My letter saying that I should arrive to-day. You didn't get it?"
"No, sir."
"Now, look here, Beale, this is absurd. I am certain that that letter was posted. I remember placing it in my pocket for that purpose. It is not there now. See. These are all the contents of my—well, I'm hanged."
He stood looking at the envelope which he had produced from his breast-pocket. A soft smile played over Mr. Beale's wooden face. He coughed.
"Beale," said Ukridge, "you—er—there seems to have been a mistake."
"Yes, sir."
"You are not so much to blame as I thought."
"No, sir."
There was a silence.
"Anyhow," said Ukridge in inspired tones, "I'll go and slay that infernal dog. I'll teach him to tear my door to pieces. Where's your gun, Beale?"