"My dear old chap, you mustn't say things like that. Now let's see what we can do for you. Sit down." He pressed the Saint back towards his chair. "Sit down, sit down. We can soon put this right. What's the value of this cheque?"
"A thousand pounds," said the Saint listlessly. "But it might as well be a million for all the chance I've got of finding the money."
"Fortunately that's an exaggeration," said Mr. Parnock cheerfully. "Now this invention of yours — have you patented it?"
Simon snorted harshly.
"What with? I haven't had a shilling to call my own for weeks. I had to offer it to those people just as it stood, and trust them to give me a square deal."
Mr. Parnock chuckled with great affability. He opened a drawer and took out his chequebook.
"A thousand pounds, Mr. Smith? And I expect you could do with a bit over for your expenses. Say twenty pounds… One thousand and twenty pounds." He inscribed the figures with a flourish. "I'll leave the cheque open so that you can go to the bank and cash it at once. That'll take a load off your mind, won't it?"
"But how do you know you'll ever see it back, Mr. Parnock?"
Mr. Parnock appeared to ponder the point, but the appearance was illusory.
"Well, suppose you left me a copy of your formula? That'd be good enough security for me. Of course, I expect you'll let me act as your agent, so I'm not really running any risk. But just as a formality…"