Nothing Serious Read Free Page B

tensely than he had ever thought in his puff.
    There
is no gainsaying the truth of Horace’s parting words. If there is one thing
calculated to take the edge off a fellow’s form in an athletic contest, it is
unrequited love. He recalled the time in his own bachelor days when a hopeless
yearning for a girl whose name he had forgotten had ruined his putting touch
for several weeks. What was needed here first and foremost, therefore, was some
scheme for reconciling these two sundered hearts. The re-insertion of the love
light in Valerie Twistleton’s eyes would put Horace Davenport right back in
mid-season form and the ticket bearing his name would once more be worth
thirty-three quid of the best and brightest.
    And it
ought not, he felt, to be so dashed difficult to get that love light resuming
work at the old stand. What Horace had said about Valerie having given him the
air because she loved another he regarded as the purest apple-sauce. Honoured
from time to time with the girl’s confidence, he knew that she looked on the
Darts wizard as a king among men. Obviously what had occurred was what is
technically known as a lovers’ tiff, and this he was convinced could be
set right by a few well-chosen words from a polished man of the world.
    Why,
then, should he not get Valerie on the ‘phone, ask her out for a bite of
supper, and having lushed her up as far as his modest resources would permit
plead with her to forgive and forget?
    Bingo
is a chap who knows a ball of fire when he sees one, and that this idea was a
ball of fire he had no doubts whatever. He sped to the telephone booth,
established communication, and a few minutes later the deal had been clinched.
The girl checked up immediately on his proposition of a slab of supper, and
suggested Mario’s popular restaurant as the mise en scène.
    “Okay,
Valerie, old crumpet,” said Bingo, infinitely relieved. “Eleven-fifteen at
Mario’s then.”
     
    So far
so good. A smooth bit of work. But it did not take Bingo long to realise that
before the revels could begin there was one rather tricky hurdle to be
surmounted. Nannie Byles, like the night, had a thousand eyes, and some pretty
adroit manoeuvring would be required if he was to get out of the house without
her spotting him. He had no desire to be called upon to explain to Mrs Bingo on
her return what he had been doing oozing off the premises in the soup and fish
at half-past ten p.m. The statement that he had been on his way to give Valerie
Twistleton a morsel of supper in her absence would, he felt, not go any too well.
    Thinking
quick, he saw the policy to pursue. Immediately upon arrived he touched the
bell and desired the parlourmaid to inform La Byles that he would be glad of a
word with her. And when the latter hove alongside, she found him lying on the
sofa, a limp, interesting figure.
    “Oh,
Nannie,” he said, speaking faintly, “I think I had better not come and hobnob
with Algernon Aubrey to-night. I have a strange all-overish feeling,
accompanied by floating spots before the eyes, and it may be catching. Explain
the circumstances to him, give him my best and say I shall hope to see him
to-morrow.
    I,
meanwhile, will be popping straight up to bed and turning in.” Well, of course,
the Byles wanted to ‘phone Mrs Bingo and summon medical aid and all that, but
he managed to head her off and they eventually settled for a basin of gruel and
a hot-water bottle. When these had been delivered at the bedside, Bingo said,
still speaking faintly, that he didn’t want to be disturbed again as his aim
was to get a refreshing sleep.
    After
that everything was pretty smooth. At about ten-thirty he got up, hopped out of
the window, eased himself down the water-pipe, was fortunate enough after
waiting a short while at the garden gate to grab a passing taxi, and precisely
at eleven-fifteen he alighted at the door of Mario’s. And a few minutes later
along blew Valerie Twistleton looking charming in some soft,