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 but the truth in this ingenuous narrative. And of their courtesy we ask none of our readers to accuse us of malice.

"You must bend a bit, Wally." The Suffolk Colthurst grappled firmly with the situation. "Better order two dozen at once from Heale and Binman. Theirs carry more starch."

Here it was that Destiny came into the picture, casual-like.

"Wally." The Suffolk Colthurst had just achieved a reticent self-respecting single bow. "Now that Lord Warlock has agreed to that settlement, if I were you I would send round a note to the Albany for Philip to come and see us in the morning."

"Well tied, Agatha. I'll write a note to Philip, now."

If the truth must be set down, and that, of course, is essential in all circumstances, the parental communication, in spite of the fact that it had an impressive device on the back and a motto in a dead language, was not the first note that was opened at B4 the Albany on the following morning. It was not the second or the third either, because there was quite a pile of correspondence in front of the kidneys and bacon at a quarter-past ten in the forenoon of Tuesday, the first of February.

"Dear Philip," said the parental communication