“It’s the interest on a hundred and twenty thousand pounds,” Ilam replied vivaciously. “And there’s another thing. It would be much better if you employed more time in inspection instead of rehearsing and conducting your precious band. Any fool can conduct a band. Give me a stick and I’d do it myself. But inspection------” “My precious band!” stammered Carpentaria, aghast. His very soul was laid low; and considering that Carpentaria’s Band had been famous in the capitals of two continents for twelve years at least, it was not surprising that his soul should be laid low by this terrible phrase. “Yes,” said Ilam, “I’ve had enough of it.” His shoulder touched Carpentaria’s, and his eyes--little, like a pig’s--shot arrows of light. “Supposing I shoved you over? I should have the concern to myself then, and no foolish interference.” He twisted his face into a grim laugh. “You have a sense of humour, after all, Ilam,” responded gaily the man on the edge of the car, fingering his long red moustache, and he, too, laughed, but he got down from his perch. “I’d just like you to comprehend----” Ilam began again. But at that instant a head appeared above the edge of the central aperture of the car, and Ilam stopped. It was the head of the young man in spectacles--gold-rimmed spectacles. “I’m Smithers, of the _Morning Herald_,” said the young man brightly and calmly, “and I took this opportunity of seeing you privately. Your men objected when I got into the parachute attachment, but you told ‘em to let go, and so they let go. I’ve had some difficulty in climbing up here off the parachute bar. Dangerous, rather. However, I’ve done it. I dare say you heard the crowd cheering.” “So it was him they were cheering,” muttered Ilam, and then looked at Carpentaria. Ilam was not a genius in the art of conversation. He could only say what he meant, and when the running of the City of Pleasure demanded the art of conversation he relied on Carpentaria, even if he was furious with him. “What’s the game?” asked Carpentaria. “Well,” said Smithers politely, “don’t you think I deserve an interview?” “You know we have absolutely declined all interviews.” “Yes, that’s why the _Herald_ wants one so badly; that’s why I’m dangling a thousand feet above my grave.” Carpentaria and Ilam exchanged glances. Each read the thought of the other--that the spectacled Smithers might have overheard their conversation, and should therefore be handled with care, this side up. “Leave it to me,” said the eyes of Carpentaria to the eyes of Ilam. “Mr. Smithers, of the _Herald_”--Carpentaria blossomed into the flowers of speech--“we heartily applaud your courage and your devotion to duty in a profession full of perils, but you are trespassing.” “Excuse me, I’m not,” said Smithers. “You can only trespass on land and water, and this isn’t a salmon river or a forbidden footpath. Besides, I’ve got my press season-ticket. Come now, talk to me.” “We are talking to you.”