"It certainly is quiet when Ginger stays over at Brooklands," Algy commented one Monday morning, reaching for the teapot.

Biggles murmured his agreement around a mouthful of toast.

"I've been going over the accounts," he said once he'd swallowed his food. "And even with the money we got as a result of the Blackbeard affair, I can't see how we can …"

He broke off and they both looked up as Mrs. Symes entered after a brief knock.

"There's a letter for you sir," she said, holding it out to Biggles. "One of the little delivery boys brought it; it didn't come in with the regular post."

Biggles accepted it and she departed again. Biggles, upon opening it, looked at the letter in startled puzzlement.

"Come on, Biggles, don't keep me in suspense," Algy said, after Biggles sat staring at the note in his hand for some time.

"It's from a woman," Biggles said at last without looking up.

Algy's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? Anyone I know?"

"Yes, actually, or rather – you knew her brother. I think so, anyway. It's from Stokes' sister."

"Freddie Stokes? From 451 squadron? Wasn't he killed in the big push right at the end of the war?"

"Yes, that's the one. He was a good chap. I never knew he had a sister; if he mentioned her, I've forgotten about it, but she says he spoke of me often when home on leave."

"Well, what about it?" Algy asked. "Probably a lot of chaps told their kid sisters about you."

"She's just got married and she says she and her new husband have a proposition to put to me, and knows she can trust my, err, discretion."

"That sounds intriguing," Algy grinned. "Am I invited to this discreet meeting, or perhaps you'd rather go alone?"

"I'm certainly not going alone. I'm not going at all," Biggles said hotly.

"Whatever for?" Algy said in some surprise.

"Here," Biggles told him, thrusting the note at him.

Algy's eyebrows rose higher the more he read down the page.

"She wants to… create a special airline with a very selective clientele?"

"That's about the gist of it," Biggles told him. He made a face. "I find the whole idea very distasteful."

"She's willing to pay us quite a lot of money," Algy pointed out, gesturing at a line of writing.

"Not in my Vandal."

"Our Vandal," Algy corrected, swiping another piece of toast from the rack. "Smyth's too, if you're being pedantic."

Biggles scowled. "I don't like the idea. I'm going to tell her there's nothing doing."

Algy sighed. "At least meet with her and her husband. It can't do any harm to talk about it. Maybe you could think of someone else you'd recommend to her."

"I couldn't do that," Biggles said. "If word of this ever got out, we'd be the laughing stock of every flying club from here to Singapore."

"So you will meet with her?"

"I suppose I'd better. And it's a jolly good thing Ginger's away this week. I may have to call Pim and ask him to come up with some excuse to keep him there another few days."

"And the money would keep us in cigarettes for a few weeks," Algy grinned. "I was wondering how we would be able to make rent on the hangar this month."

"Poor old Freddie is probably turning in his grave," Biggles grunted, folding the letter and returning it to its envelope.

"Oh, I don't know. He'd probably have thought of it first, if he were still alive. D'you remember the night he met those French girls and the…."

Biggles grinned at the memory despite his misgivings. "Quite. Alright, fine. Pass me the telephone."

A few hours later, Biggles and Algy stood in their good town suits on the pavement in front of a large and imposing building.

"What does her husband do again?" Algy whispered, as Biggles pressed the bell.

"Aside from making a jolly lot of money? No idea. But this house wasn't built yesterday, nor the day before."

The door was opened by a very imposing butler. Biggles introduced himself, and gave the man his card.

"We have an appointment with Mrs. Carver."

"Certainly, sir," he replied stiffly, showing them into a small parlor.

They waited but a moment before the lady of the house came in, a notebook in her hand. She closed the door firmly behind her and put a record on an old-fashioned gramophone.

"Can't have the servants overhearing," she explained, pointing its trumpet toward the door.

Biggles and Algy were never sure afterwards how they managed to keep a straight face throughout the conversation that followed, but found themselves agreeing to removing the seats from the cabin of the Vandal and installing a platform bed. She showed them some sketches in her notebook of how she thought they might accomplish this.

"You've put a great deal of thought into this," Biggles said, looking at a detailed drawing of a folding bed.

She shrugged. "I'm easily bored. This has really captured my attention, however."

"You realize," Biggles told her seriously, thumbing through the sketches, "that this means I shall have to take my mechanic into my – our - confidence."

"You trust this man?"

"With my life," Biggles said without hesitation.

"That's good enough for me," she said with a shrug. "Just make sure nobody else gets wind of my idea."

"Oh, I don't know," Algy told her with a grin. "Other people might cotton on to this scheme and want to join in. We could do very well out of this idea."

"I'm not operating an airborne… hotel," Biggles said. He had been about to say 'brothel,' but realized that Mrs. Carver, at least, was married to her partner, so that wasn't really an appropriate description. There were some small mercies to be had, he thought, inwardly rolling his eyes.

She smiled saucily at him, her eyes twinkling delightedly. He began to see why Mr. Carver went along with whatever madcap ideas his wife might have.

Later that afternoon at Brooklands, Biggles and Algy climbed out of the Bentley and headed toward their usual hangar.

"Biggles!" cried a youthful voice joyfully, followed by the sound of running footsteps.

Biggles swore under his breath, but forced a smile as Ginger appeared from a hangar on the far side of the car park.

"Hullo, laddie."

"I didn't know you were coming down today," Ginger said. He was wearing an old boiler suit, several sizes too big and rolled up at the ankles, carrying a piston component in his left hand, and absolutely begrimed from head to toe.

"I hadn't planned on it, but I came across something I'd like to speak to Smyth about."

"What is it?" Ginger asked innocently.

"Some… modifications to the Vandal," Biggles replied truthfully.

"What…"

"Run along and get back to your studies," Biggles told him, steering him by his shoulders back toward Pim, who had appeared as well, looking for his lost lamb. "Pim's come looking for you. Be a good lad and don't give him any grief."

"But can't I …"

"No," Biggles told him firmly, giving him a gentle nudge in Pim's direction. "Go on now. We'll pick you up at the end of the week. And for goodness sake make sure you take bath before then, or you're not getting a lift in my Bentley."

Ginger sighed but returned to Pim, rubbing a filthy hand across the back of an already filthy neck as he chattered happily. Pim lifted his eyes to heaven briefly and guided him back into the workshop, giving Biggles a little wave before he closed the door.

Biggles and Algy made their way into their own hangar, giving Smyth a shout. Smyth set down whatever he'd been working on at the bench and jogged over, wiping his hands on a shop apron.

"I wasn't expecting you today, sir," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"You can dismiss all the apprentices and anybody else who's hanging about for the next half hour," Biggles told him with a wink. "Send them for lunch, or on an errand, but get them out of here while we have a chat."

Smyth's eyes grew wide, but he turned and shouted a few orders at the lads hanging around the margins of the hangar and they all departed, some more quickly than others.

"What on earth…"

Biggles grinned at him. "We've been approached by an affluent patron," he began.

"That sounds promising, sir," Smyth murmured. "Rent's due at the end of the month."

"One who requires absolute secrecy."

"I gathered that, sir," Smyth smiled.

"She…"

"She?"

"She. Now, she would like us to fly her and her husband around while they… ahem… well, you know."

Smyth's eyes bulged. "That's a new one," he said in a hushed, almost awed, voice.

Biggles coughed in embarrassment.

"Well, sir," Smyth said after a moment's awkward silence. "I suppose you'll be wanting me to take out the seats. There's not much room otherwise."

"Yes, and installing some kind of bed. Can you do that without arousing too much suspicion among the staff?"

"I can tell them you're planning another round-the-world jaunt and looking to make your sleeping accommodation much more comfortable than the last time. I can make it so it folds down from each side, so it can be converted later into two singles, if you like."

"Perfect," said Biggles. "How long will that take?"

"Shouldn't take more than a day. Maybe two, depending on how easy it is to get materials for the bed. The frame part I should be able to manage by mid-day tomorrow, if we get started stripping out the seats right away."

"Excellent," said Biggles.

"I suppose I should install some handholds, too," Smyth said, rubbing his chin as he considered the logistics and leaving a greasy smear on his face. "How many should I get, do you think?"

Biggles' mind suddenly leapt backward in time to when, as a young teenager, he had seen some paintings in an Indian temple. He wondered how flexible Mrs. Carver was… he wondered quite a lot of things about her. He then realized he was imagining indecent things about his friend's younger sister and his mind crashed back to reality.

"I'll leave that up to you," Biggles said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're the married one."

"Hmm," Smyth mused aloud as he wandered off to the work bench. "Wonder if I could get the missus to…"

"Let's not think about that," Biggles told Algy, with a faint shudder. "I'm away to the clubhouse. I need a drink."

Smyth stepped back to survey his handiwork with a grunt of satisfaction. He had installed a hinged contraption on each side that could be folded up and out of the way when not in use, but swung down and latched together in the middle to form a good-sized platform, which would hold the mattress. He gingerly climbed on it to test his weight. So far, so good, he thought.

He stood on the platform and shifted his weight this way and that. It held. He bounced slightly, and it continued to hold his weight. At last he lay down on it and stared up at the ceiling with a contemplative look on his face.

"Where to put the handholds?" he mused aloud.

"What was that, chief?" asked one of his greasy apprentices, who stood just outside the door with a screwdriver in one hand and an oily rag in another.

"Hop up here, Mikey," Smyth called, rolling off the end and standing up again. "And tell me if you were sleeping here, where you'd grab onto if there was some, err, turbulence."

Mikey dutifully did as he was bidden, and pointed to a few places. If he thought this was an odd request, he did not say so. At the sight of Mikey splayed out on the frame, Smyth nearly got a case of the giggles, but by biting the inside of his cheek firmly, he managed to hold it together. He marked the locations and went off to find his toolkit.

Biggles, after a restorative beverage in the clubhouse, wandered back to his hangar and observed the busy hive of activity around the Vandal with some amusement.

"What's he told the apprentices, do you think?" asked Algy.

"No idea. Doesn't matter as long as they believe it."

"Hullo, sir," Smyth called, seeing them approach. "Come and see what we've managed already."

Biggles was impressed. The seats were gone, and in their place was a hinged frame that swung down and locked in the middle. This could prove useful on future overnight trips, he thought.

"I've got Mikey and some of the lads installing grips at intervals," Smyth said, pointing at one that was already in place. "Should I put some on the ceiling, do you think?"

Smyth watched with private delight as Biggles turned quite red and seemed to be at a loss for words.

"Oh, why not," Algy said lightly, taking Biggles' arm and steering him away. "You never know when they might come in handy. Why we didn't think of this years ago, I'll never know, but I wish we would've had this installed when we were in Bolivia."

Biggles glared at Algy, who winked at Smyth. Smyth chortled to himself. It had never been so easy to wind Biggles up.

The morning of the third day, Biggles and Algy prepared to test the fruits of their labors. Biggles stood staring at the Vandal from the tarmac.

"This is – by far – the strangest thing I've ever been asked to do."

"I know," Algy replied quietly.

"I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea."

"I know that too," Algy told him.

Biggles sighed. "I'll fly around while you lie on it, and try not to fall off."

"Too bad I've not got a female companion to test it with me."

Biggles nudged him with an elbow. "Don't even think about it. It's bad enough having to fly Freddie's little sister around whilst she does."

"You've got to stop thinking about her as Freddie's little sister. She's a married woman."

"I know, I know. Anyway, let's get this over with."

Algy grinned as he kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed inside the cabin.

"Ooh, comfy."

"Stop it."

"I could get used to this," Algy said, stretching out luxuriously.

Biggles laughed. "Don't."

Algy sat up. "I could make it a little more realistic," he said with a suggestive leer. He wiggled his eyebrows outrageously.

Biggles threw a glove at him.

"Oh, go and get in the cockpit," Algy laughed, tossing it back. "Don't worry. I won't do anything to…ahem… sully the new sheets."

Biggles rolled his eyes and climbed into his usual seat; he waved to Smyth to clear the chocks.

"Here goes nothing," he thought, opening the throttle.

At least, he thought with some consolation, the roar of the engines was too loud to overhear anything that might be going on in the cabin behind him. He was glad Smyth had hung a little curtain over the glass window in the small door that separated the cockpit from the cabin. The thought of accidentally catching sight of the Carvers was too much to bear.

Algy, for his part, was delighting in rolling this way and that, testing the various handholds that Smyth had installed. He was glad that they held his weight. He most certainly did not want to have to explain how his passengers had acquired their injuries to the resident medic at Brooklands.

The Vandal hit a bump in the air and Algy floated out of the bed for a split second before crashing back into it with some force. His initial reaction was one of relief that the mattress was a thick one, but his second one was of curiosity as to what would have happened had he been in the bed with another person. He sat up and seriously contemplated who he might ask to join him, in order to test his theory.

His musings were interrupted by a sharp double tap on the glass, which was their pre-arranged signal that Biggles was preparing to land. Algy reluctantly climbed off the bed and struggled back through the narrow aperture to his seat in the cockpit.

"Well?" Biggles asked loudly, above the noise of the engines.

"It'll do," Algy replied. "Wish I had someone to test it with me though, to make it more realistic."

The corners of Biggles' mouth twitched as he brought the Vandal around for her final approach. "I knew you'd say that," he murmured to himself.

Upon landing, they taxied back to their hangar where Smyth was waiting, clipboard in hand, a pencil behind his ear.

"Well, sir?" Smyth asked with a slightly embarrassed cough. "How did it work?"

"Just fine, until Biggles hit a bump and I levitated just a bit," Algy answered, climbing down. "I must say, I'm very glad you chose a thick mattress. I couldn't test its other properties of course…" he trailed off.

Smyth grinned at him. "I've been thinking, sir," he said conspiratorially, casting a furtive glance toward the apprentices on the far side of the hangar. "What do you think about installing some mirrors…" he stopped abruptly as Biggles glared at him.

"No. Absolutely and finally."

Smyth shrugged. "As you wish, sir."

Biggles threw a sidelong glance at Algy as the two of them walked away to the little office at the rear of the hangar. "I'm seeing a new side to Smyth with this little project."

Algy lifted a shoulder. "Maybe that's what happens when you take a man away from his wife for two years."

"I swear, I'm never looking at Clara the same way again."

"How'd you think Roy got here? Do you think the Flight Sergeant and Clara were at a church picnic and Roy floated down a stream in a little wicker basket perhaps?"

Biggles glared at him. "Go away."

Algy continued unabashed as they entered their office. "That goes for any of us, come to think of, the odd religious miracle notwithstanding. Yourself included. There's only one way to make new people, and they're not brought by a stork, no matter what Nanny says."

"I'm ignoring you," Biggles told him, picking up a newspaper as he sat down and unfolding it so he could hide behind it.

Algy laughed, undeterred. He flung himself into a chair and kicked his feet up onto the desk. "You told Mrs. Carver you'd do this for them."

"Once."

"No repeat customers? After all the work Smyth went to, installing the folding bed?"

"We can use it with two single mattresses on future trips. It won't be wasted effort."

"Uh huh. I take it you won't let the lovely Mrs. Carver talk you into doing a second flight?"

"You assume correctly," Biggles told him curtly, still hidden behind the newspaper.

"Not even if she asks you to join in the fun?" Algy asked, waiting for Biggles' reaction.

Biggles spluttered from behind the newspaper and did not reply.

Algy tried a different tactic. "It could be a lucrative business opportunity. I'm sure I could find some rich friends who would…"

"No. That's final."

Algy grinned unashamedly and picked up a well-thumbed aviation magazine from the desk. "As you like," he murmured as he flipped through it idly.

Dawn broke with unusual splendor the following morning, Biggles thought grumpily as he dressed. He had been hoping for rain, fog, and maybe a stray hailstorm or perhaps even a tornado. They had arranged to meet the Carvers around eight o'clock that morning to show them his modifications. He half hoped that they would find them unacceptable and demand something else, but he knew that Smyth had been very thorough.

"Let's get this over with," he grunted at Algy over breakfast.

Algy grinned. "The magic's gone," he sighed melodramatically. "There's no romance left in the world."

Biggles made a face at him and took a bite of toast.

"It could be worse," Algy told him encouragingly. "They're married, they like each other, it's not illegal, and so forth." He ticked these off on his fingers as he said them.

Biggles acknowledged this with a grunt.

"Plus, Ginger's away until tomorrow night, so there's a whole conversation you don't have to have. Look on the bright side," Algy continued with unrelenting cheerfulness.

"I know, I know. I agreed to this, so I'm going to do it. I just … It's deuced awkward, and if anyone else hears of it…"

Algy shrugged. "They'll probably wish they'd thought of it first."

"I can't believe I agreed to this," Biggles said plaintively, wishing the earth would swallow him up before he got to Brooklands so he wouldn't have to go through with it.

"Mrs. Carver is very persuasive."

"I noticed," Biggles said dryly.

"Goodness knows what else she talks her husband into."

"I'm going to try not to think about that, now you've mentioned it," Biggles told him coldly.

Algy lifted a shoulder. "No matter. It's time we were off," he said, getting up.

"Do I have to? Can't you tell her I'm ill?"

Algy stood upright with both hands on his hips. "James Bigglesworth!" he chided, only half-jokingly. "You've never backed out on a job yet. Don't start today!"

Biggles sighed and stood as well. He reached for his coat. "Let's be off before I change my mind," he grumbled.

"That's the spirit," Algy told him encouragingly, patting him on the shoulder as they went out.

They arrived at Brooklands a short while later and Biggles breathed a sigh of relief that they didn't see Ginger as they walked toward their hangar. He walked in to find Smyth chatting politely with the Carvers, who looked as if they'd only just arrived. Biggles mumbled something under his breath. Algy glanced at him.

"Were you hoping they wouldn't turn up?" he murmured.

Biggles sighed. "I suppose I was."

"Come on. We promised. You can't back out of it now."

Biggles pressed his lips together into a fine line. "I know, I know."

Biggles glanced around the hangar and was relieved to find it empty except for Smyth and the Carvers. Mikey and the other apprentices were not fools, and would soon put two and two together if they should see the Carvers. Biggles wondered what Smyth had told them to get them out of the way, but quickly brushed the thought aside.

"Good morning," he said as brightly as he could manage, approaching the Carvers.

They all chatted for a few moments about how lovely the weather was, and what a fine day for flying, before Algy finally stepped in and asked if they'd like to see the interior of the cabin.

Smyth had outdone himself, as usual, Biggles noticed. The platform bed was folded into place, and looked very inviting. A sheer fabric hung over the windows, letting in light, but providing privacy. Biggles wondered briefly if Mrs. Smyth knew her sewing table had been raided, and if so, what marvelous excuse her husband had given her.

Mrs. Carver looked around briskly and professionally, whilst her husband was clearly a little uncomfortable with the arrangement.

"This looks splendid," she said, eyes twinkling. "How soon can we take off?"

"Really, darling," her husband said with a hint of gentle reproof. "What will these good gentlemen think?"

Biggles and Algy daren't look at one another, whilst Smyth broke the awkward silence by asking Biggles to come with him to check the oil pressure, and wouldn't Mr. Lacey like to inspect the magneto? They all scurried away, managing somehow not to snicker audibly.

The Carvers climbed into the small cabin. Mrs. Carver sat demurely on the edge of the bed, a small canvas bag in her hands.

"Ready to go?" Biggles asked, trying not to look inside the cabin.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Mr. Carver grinned, his earlier embarrassment gone now that they were actually in the cabin. "You know, Bigglesworth my man, you really should try marriage. Some aspects of it are quite… pleasurable."

Biggles swallowed uncomfortably. "So it would appear," he replied carefully. "We'll be taking off momentarily. Please stay seated during takeoff for your own safety, and don't engage in any… acrobatics… until we're at a cruising altitude."

Mrs. Carver winked at him. Biggles pretended not to have noticed, and took his seat in the cockpit, followed by Algy, who closed the little door to the cabin quite firmly.

"Don't want to run the risk of it swinging open mid-flight," Algy grinned at Biggles.

Biggles shook his head. "I cannot believe I let her talk me into this."

"It's not that bad."

"Yes, it is."

"Is it better or worse than the time you walked in on Freddie and the…"

"Oh for Pete's sake," Biggles interrupted him. "Let's get this over with." And he opened the throttle and taxied out to the landing strip.

After tootling about the sky rather aimlessly for forty-five minutes, Biggles was beginning to get a bit bored.

"How much longer should we give them, do you think?" he shouted to Algy above the noise of the engine.

Algy looked at his watch. "If they're not done yet, they should be shortly. Want me to check?" he asked, gesturing at the window.

"Not yet," Biggles said. "I'll give them another five minutes."

Just then, a tap on the door separating them from the cabin made them both turn in their seats.

Algy, in response to a gesture from Biggles, squirmed around in his seat and pulled aside the curtain on the window.

"It's Mr. Carver," he told Biggles.

"Well, I didn't think it would be the Prime Minister, but I suppose you never know."

Algy grinned and opened the door a crack. "Yes?"

"I'm afraid I need some help," Mr. Carver said, turning scarlet.

"I'm your man," Algy agreed cheerfully, as Biggles strove mightily to fly the plane in a straight line.

"Not that kind," Mr. Carver snapped.

"What then?"

Mr. Carver gestured helplessly back toward his wife. "I dropped the key and I can't find it."

Algy gaped for a moment at the sight that met his incredulous eyes and then started snickering uncontrollably.

"What is it? What key is he talking about? And what the devil is wrong with you?" Biggles asked, taking his eyes off the instrument panel and staring at Algy, who seemed to be having an epileptic fit.

Algy paused for breath. "They brought handcuffs," he wheezed.

Biggles closed his eyes and offered up a silent prayer for deliverance.

"Never again. Never. I don't care if I have to sit on a street corner begging for spare change from passersby," Biggles muttered to himself as Algy crawled awkwardly through the small doorway to help Mr. Carver hunt for the key.

Eventually Algy returned, grinning broadly. "All set," he commented, settling back into his seat.

"Are they… did they… well… what I mean is…."

"You can land now," Algy said, taking pity on him.

"Thank heavens," Biggles sighed, turning the Vandal in a slow arc back toward Brooklands.

Once they landed, Biggles taxied well into the shade of their hangar before allowing his passengers to disembark. Mr. Carver seemed rather chastened following the handcuff incident, but Mrs. Carver was completely unabashed as she thanked Biggles profusely for the flight.

"Are you sure you won't reconsider a second venture?" she asked Biggles, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, her hand upon his arm.

"No, I'm afraid not," he said. "It was…"

She interrupted him. "It really was a perfect fantasy come to life." Then she leaned in so close that he felt her breath upon his ear. "You should try it some time."

Biggles' collar felt uncomfortably tight as he struggled to come up with a reply, but Algy stepped in.

"We'll think about it. Won't we, Biggles?"

Biggles nodded absently, his head swimming with images.

Algy rubbed his hands briskly together and turned to Mr. Carver. "Now, sir, I believe you mentioned something about payment."

Biggles snapped back to reality and he accepted the cheque from Mr. Carver politely.

"You know, Bigglesworth, this could be quite a profitable venture," Mr. Carver told him as they walked toward their car. "My wife and I have certain friends to whom we could recommend your services."

"Oh yes," Mrs. Carver said brightly. "I can think of a few offhand that would be very interested."

Biggles wracked his brains to come up with a polite refusal, but before he could say anything, the Carvers' chauffer opened the door to their car and they climbed into their seats. Mrs. Carver gave them a little wave out the window before it pulled away.

Biggles turned to Algy with a stricken look on his face. "Please tell me we didn't just agree to doing this again."

The rest of the day passed without incident, and by Friday morning Biggles had put the whole matter behind him.

"Are we picking Ginger up tonight, or is he taking the bus?" Algy asked lazily from his seat by the fire, where he sprawled, half-dozing, as the rain pattered against the window.

"We're collecting him - provided Pim's made him take a bath since we saw him last. We might as well have dinner at the Aero Club and see if we know anybody who's about tonight. If Ginger's clean enough, we can go straight there. Otherwise we'll have to bring him back here to scrub up."

"We'd better get our story straight, if he asks us what we did this week."

Biggles' lips twitched. "I suppose we should."

"So, what should we say?"

"That we took the sister of our late friend and her husband on a joy ride."

"Brings a new meaning to the term," Algy grinned.

"Shut up."

Algy's grin broadened. "What amazes me the most is that I didn't think of this myself."

"That is a puzzler."

Algy laughed. "I have a few friends I could ring up."

"Don't even think about it."

They both looked up as Mrs. Symes came in. "The postman's just been, Major. You've got a number of letters today."

Biggles accepted the small pile from his housekeeper with a confused frown. Algy thanked the housekeeper and she departed.

"Seems you've acquired quite the following. The lovely Mrs. Carver has a couple of friends who share her taste. And with very posh return addresses too," Algy commented, rifling through the letters.

Biggles buried his face in his hands. "What did I do to deserve this?"

"Ooh, look who this one's from," Algy held it up.

Biggles glanced at it in passing and then stared at the stationery, eyes saucering. "No."

"Probably for the best," remarked Algy casually tossing it aside. "Mother can't stand the woman. I'd probably be disowned if she thought I had anything to do with her."

"You'd be disowned if your mother knew a tenth of the things you've done."

Algy shrugged. "True enough. So are you saying you'll reconsider?"

"Absolutely and finally, we are not."

"Think of the fame. The glory. Or alternatively - the cash for keeping our traps shut."

"No."

"Spoilsport."

The End.