Young Bingo was talking to Jeeves like a father on the subject of betting against the form-book. The yell I gave made him bite his tongue in the middle of a sentence.

“What the dickens is the matter?” he asked, not a little peeved.

“We’re dished! Listen to this!”

I read him the note:

The Vicarage,

Twing,

Glos.

My Dear Wooster