Ukridge’s face clouded for a moment, but cheerfulness returned.
“Oh, well, it can’t be helped. He’ll simmer down in a day or two. It had to be done, laddie. Life and death matter. And it’s all right. Read this.”
I took the letter he handed me. It was written in a scrawly hand.
“What’s this?”
“Read it, laddie. I think it will meet the case.” I read.
“‘Wilberforce.’”
“Who on earth’s Wilberforce?”
“I told you that was Billson’s name.”
“Oh, yes.”
I returned to the letter.