“The money, dash it. And Previn, too. He’s bolted.” A hard look came into the other’s eyes. Dim as the light was, it was strong enough to show his expression, and that expression was not an agreeable one. “That won’t do,” he said, in a metallic voice. “Now, my dear old horse——” “It’s no good trying anything like that on me. I want my money, or I’m going to call a policeman. Now, then!” “But, laddie, be reasonable.” “Made a mistake in not getting it in advance. But now’ll do. Out with it!” “But I keep telling you Previn’s bolted!” “He’s certainly bolted,” I put in, trying to be helpful. “That’s right, mister,” said a voice at the door. “I met ’im sneakin’ away.” It was Wilberforce Billson. He stood in the doorway diffidently, as one not sure of his welcome. His whole bearing was apologetic. He had a nasty bruise on his left cheek and one of his eyes was closed, but he bore no other signs of his recent conflict. Ukridge was gazing upon him with bulging eyes. “You _met_ him!” he moaned. “You actually met him?” “R,” said Mr. Billson. “When I was comin’ to the ’all. I seen ’im puttin’ all that money into a liddle bag, and then ’e ’urried off.” “Good lord!” I cried. “Didn’t you suspect what he was up to?” “R,” agreed Mr. Billson. “I always knew ’e was a wrong ’un.” “Then why, you poor woollen-headed fish,” bellowed Ukridge, exploding, “why on earth didn’t you stop him?” “I never thought of that,” admitted Mr. Billson, apologetically. Ukridge laughed a hideous laugh. “I just pushed ’im in the face,” proceeded Mr. Billson, “and took the liddle bag away from ’im.” He placed on the table a small weather-worn suitcase that jingled musically as he moved it; then, with the air of one who dismisses some triviality from his mind, moved to the door. “’Scuse me, gents,” said Battling Billson, deprecatingly. “Can’t stop. I’ve got to go and spread the light.” CHAPTER X UKRIDGE ROUNDS A NASTY CORNER The late Sir Rupert Lakenheath, K.C.M.G., C.B., M.V.O., was one of those men at whom their countries point with pride. Until his retirement on a pension in the year 1906, he had been Governor of various insanitary outposts of the British Empire situated around the equator, and as such had won respect and esteem from all. A kindly editor of my acquaintance secured for me the job of assisting the widow of this great administrator to prepare his memoirs for publication; and on a certain summer afternoon I had just finished arraying myself suitably for my first call on her at her residence in Thurloe Square, South Kensington, when there was a knock at the door, and Bowles, my landlord, entered, bearing gifts. These consisted of a bottle with a staring label and a large cardboard hat-box. I gazed at them blankly, for they held no message for me. Bowles, in his ambassadorial manner, condescended to explain.