Mr. Tombs coughed.
"I — er — well — I can't quite get over the story you've told me."
He picked up a handful of the notes, peered at them minutely, screwed them in his fingers, and put them down again rather abruptly and experimentally, as if he were trying to discover whether putting temptation from him would bring a glow of conscious virtue that would compensate for the worldly loss. Apparently the experiment was not very satisfactory, for his mouth puckered wistfully.
"You've told me all about yourself," said Benny, "and about your wife being delicate and needing to go away for a long sea voyage. I expect there's trouble about getting your children a proper education that you haven't mentioned at all. You're welcome to put all that right. You can buy just as many of these notes as you like, and twenty pounds per hundred is the price to you. That's exactly what they cost me in getting the special paper and inks and having them printed — the man I found to print 'em for me gets a big rake-off, of course. Four shillings each is the cost price, and you can make yourself a millionaire if you want to."
Mr. Tombs gulped audibly.
"You're — you're not pulling" my leg, are you?" he stammered pathetically.
"Of course I'm not. I'm glad to do it." Benny stood up and placed one hand affectionately on Mr. Tombs's shoulders. "Look here, I know all this must have been a shock to you. It wants a bit of getting used to. Why don't you go away and think it over? Come and have lunch with me again tomorrow, if you want some of these notes, and bring the money with you to pay for them. Call me at seven o'clock and let me know if I'm to expect you." He picked up a small handful of money and stuffed it into Mr. Tombs's pocket. "Here — take some samples with you and try them on a bank, just in case you still can't believe it."
Mr. Tombs nodded, blinking.
"I'm the man in the taxi again," he said with a weak smile.
"When you really do find the wallet —"