pay
heavy sums for birds which die off quicker than I can get them in. It
isn't business."

It was not my business, at any rate, so I switched off my attention
from Ukridge's troubles and was opening the first of my two letters
when an exclamation from Mrs. Ukridge made me look up.

She had dropped the letter she had been reading and was staring
indignantly in front of her. There were two little red spots on her
cheeks.

"I shall never speak to Aunt Elizabeth again," she said.

"What's the matter, old chap?" inquired Ukridge affectionately,
glancing up from his pile of bills. "Aunt Elizabeth been getting on
your nerves again? What's she been saying this time?"

Mrs. Ukridge left the room with a sob.

Ukridge sprang at the letter.

"If that demon doesn't stop writing letters and upsetting Millie I
shall lynch her," he said. I had never seen him so genuinely angry. He
turned over the pages till he came to the passage which had caused the
trouble. "Listen to this, Garnet. 'I'm sorry, but not surprised, to
hear that the chicken farm is not proving a great success. I think you
know my opinion of your husband. He is perfectly helpless in any
matter requiring the exercise of a little common sense and business
capability.' I like that! 'Pon my soul, I like that! You've known me
longer than she has, Garny, and you know that it's just in matters
requiring common sense that I come out strong. What?"

"Of course, old man," I replied dutifully. "The woman must be a fool."

"That's what she calls me two lines farther on. No wonder Millie was
upset. Why can't these cats leave people alone?"

"O woman, woman!" I threw in helpfully.

"Always interfering--"

"Beastly!"

"--and backbiting--"

"Awful!"

"I shan't stand it!"

"I shouldn't."

"Look here! On the next page she calls me a gaby!"

"It's time you took a strong hand."

"And in the very next sentence refers to me as a perfect guffin.
What's a guffin, Garny, old boy?"

"It sounds indecent."

"I believe it's actionable."

"I shouldn't wonder."

Ukridge rushed to the door.

"Millie!" he shouted.

No answer.

He slammed the door, and I heard him dashing upstairs.

I turned with a sense of relief to my letters. One was from Lickford.
It bore a Cornish postmark. I glanced through it, and laid it aside
for a more exhaustive perusal later on.

The other was in a strange handwriting. I looked at the signature.
Patrick Derrick. This was queer. What ha