Grewgus shrugged his shoulders and spoke in a withering voice: “A rich man, of course, got on in the world. Well, I should say it was just what he would do, like the snob he is. I suppose he wouldn’t chuck you a shilling if you were starving.” It was evident, in spite of his resentment, that Newcombe could not tell an absolute lie. “I won’t say he hasn’t given me a bit, but there’s a reason for it, a reason for it.” “A reason for it,” repeated the detective. “I expect a pretty good one too?” Was he going to get something out of this sot? Mr. Newcombe went on muttering to himself: “I could make him smart, if I chose to, the ungrateful dog. He to lord it with his flunkeys and his fine motor-car while I live on a pittance.” “You know something about this fine gentleman who calls you a drunken dog?” insinuated the detective, repeating the offensive epithet with the view of keeping the man’s resentment at white heat. Perhaps Grewgus had overdone it. Something seemed to stir in the drink-soddened brain, and told him he had gone too far. The Colonial seemed to pull himself together. “That’s neither here nor there,” he said in a surly tone. Then he harked back in his maudlin state to his original grievance. “A drunken dog indeed, from him who for years never drew a sober breath! Tell me, mister, did I look drunk? But I forget, you said you didn’t see me. Am I drunk now?” Grewgus knew that the moment had gone. He would get nothing out of this creature now. There was no need for him to dissemble any longer. “If you ask my candid opinion, I think you have had too much. The last glass has knocked you over. I am not sure you can stand properly. Have a try.” Mr. Newcombe did as he was told, but the effort was not successful. He got up for an instant, but relapsed promptly into his seat. Grewgus found himself confronted with an awkward situation. He did not for a moment regret his hastily conceived pursuit of Newcombe; he had come within an ace of accomplishing his object. It was by the merest bad luck, at the last moment, some sudden flickering of intelligence had caused the inebriated man to exercise discretion. All the same, he found himself saddled with a companion, drunk to the point of incapacity, and unable to look after himself. Grewgus made up his mind at once; it was necessary to do so, since Newcombe showed signs of sinking into slumber. “Look here,” he whispered into the man’s ear as loud as he dared. “If you don’t want to be locked up for the night, I shall have to get you home. Tell me quickly where you live.” In a thick voice, the incapacitated Colonial muttered the name of a mean street in the King’s Cross district. Grewgus knew the place well, and, as was his custom, drew a rapid inference. Either Stormont was allowing him a very small pittance, or else Newcombe was averse to heavy standing charges as they would curtail his opportunities of purchasing his beloved alcohol.