“There’s the benefit money,” said the other, looking at himself curiously in the hollow of a spoon, “the benefit money to borrow from, and Yes, yes! I know what you are going to say and I quite agree with you. I think you’re most decidedly in the right. Far be it from me to suggest for a single moment—” “I’m getting tired of you,” interrupted Erb suddenly. “I wish you’d take your hook and go away. Your face worries me, and your talk makes my head ache.” “Then it’s time I came to close quarters. Listen to me!” Mr. Doubleday leaned his elbows on the table, and, bending forward, shielded his mouth with his hand that words might not go astray. “This is the situation. A man, a young man, takes up a certain high-minded attitude in regard to a certain firm; gets hauled up for libel; gets fined. His society comes to his rescue. Newspapers have paragraphs applauding him. So far, so good! Fine thing to show up, as far as he can, dangerous trades. But he forgets or he pretends to forget, doesn’t matter which—that not so long ago he, this same young man, went all over the country, making speeches in favour of a syndicate that called itself something or other—” “I don’t ask your permission before I open my mouth,” cried Erb heatedly. “True, my lad, true! You can go further than that. You can say that you didn’t do so without being adequately bribed to do it.” “Bribed!” Erb rose at the table and clenched his fist. “Keep cool!” said Mr. Doubleday, making a military tent of his two hands. “There’s no extra charge for sitting down.” “Let me know what you mean by saying that I’ve been bribed.” “I should have thought that you would have known the meaning of the term by this time. B-r-i-b-e is a word meaning the sum accepted for doing work that you had no business to do. We can easily verify it.” He snapped his fingers. “Got a dictionary, my dear?” “To eat?” asked the waitress. “A dictionary,” he repeated with impatience. “We’ve got an old London directory.” “Never mind about the exact definition of the word,” said Erb steadily. “Tell me at once what you mean by your accusation.” “Have you ever in all your life seen a cheque for twenty pounds?” “Yes!” “Made payable to yourself?” “Yes!” “And signed by—” “Yes, yes, go on.” “Nothing more to say,” remarked Mr. Doubleday. “There’s an end of the matter. Only it’s rather a pretty circumstance altogether, don’t you think? This self-sacrificing chap who has allowed himself to be sold up publicly as a protest against harmful trades, is the same man who earlier in the year was speaking throughout the length and breadth of the land in support of trade infinitely more harmful than the one carried on in Neckinger Road. _And_,” here Mr. Doubleday took down his elderly silk hat and made elaborate pretence of smoothing the nap, “getting uncommonly well paid for it, too. Pretty situation, isn’t it?”