He cursed himself for the stupid thing he
had done. He had wrecked his life, that's what he had done--poor fool!
And then came the unexpected meeting in the home of Thomas Singleton
Bingle, and the detached scene in the shelter of the window-nook.
Mr. Bingle experienced a second shock just before Flanders darted out
of the house to jump into the waiting automobile which was to take him
to the station for the 10:17 train.
"Well, good night, Mr. Bingle," cried the tall young reporter,
sticking his head through the library door in response to the host's
invitation to "come in." "Thank you for the greatest evening of my
life. It's just like a fairy story. Oh, yes, before I forget it: I
want to tell you how much I enjoyed 'The Chimes.' I never knew that
Dickens could write anything so--"
"'The Chimes'?" cried Mr. Bingle, abruptly leaving the little group at
the fireplace and bearing down upon the unconscious offender. "What do
you mean? It wasn't 'The Chimes' that I--"
"Certainly not," exclaimed Mr. Flanders, glibly. "Of course, it
wasn't.
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