'By the way, Ol,' Mr Brindley shouted from the doorway, 'it seems Simon Fuge is dead.'
We could see the man's stooping form between the two head-lights. He turned his head towards the house.
'Who the dagger is Simon Fuge?' he inquired. 'There's about five thousand Fuges in th' Five Towns.'
'Oh! I thought you knew him.'
'I might, and I mightn't. It's not one o' them Fuge brothers saggar-makers at Longshaw, is it?'
'No, It's—'
Mr Colclough had succeeded in starting his engine, and the air was rent with gun-shots. He jumped lightly into the driver's seat.
'Well, see you later,' he cried, and was off, persuading the enormous beast under him to describe a semicircle in the narrow street backing, forcing forward, and backing again, to the accompaniment of the continuous fusillade. At length he got away, drew up within two feet of an electric tram that slid bumping down the main street, and vanished round the corner. A little ragged boy passed, crying, 'Signal, extra,' and Mr Brindley hailed him.
'What IS Mr Colclough?' I asked in the drawing-room.
'Manufacturer—sanitary ware,' said Mr Brindley. 'He's got one of the best businesses in Hanbridge. I wish I'd half his income. Never buys a book, you know.'