Lieut.-Colonel Sir George Uppingdon took the Saint's arm, gently but very firmly.
"Just a minute, my dear boy," he said, rolling the words succulently round his tongue. "We must not be old-fashioned. We must move with the times. This psychic gift of yours is truly remarkable. There's a fortune in it. Damme, if somebody threw a purse into Irnmelbern's lap, he'd be asking me what it was. Thank God, I'm not so dense as that, by Gad. My dear Mr. Templar, my dear boy, you must — I positively insist — you must come back to my rooms and talk about what you're going to do with this gift of yours. By Gad!"
Mr. Immelbern did not come out of his trance until halfway through the bargaining that followed.
It was nearly two hours later when the two partners struggled somewhat short-windedly up the stairs to a dingy one-roomed office off the Strand. Its furniture consisted of a chair, a table with a telephone on it, and a tape machine in one corner. It had not been swept for weeks, but it served its purpose adequately.
The third and very junior member of the partnership sat on the chair with his feet on the table, smoking a limp cigarette and turning the pages of Paris Plaisirs. He looked up in some surprise not unmixed with alarm at the noisy entrance of his confederates — a pimply youth with a chin that barely contrived to separate his mouth from his neck.
"I've made our fortunes!" yelled Mr. Immelbern, and, despite the youth's repulsive aspect, embraced him.
A slight frown momentarily marred the Colonel's glowing benevolence.
"What d'you mean — you've made our fortunes?" he demanded. "If it hadn't been for me—"
"Well, what the hell does it matter?" said Mr. Immelbern. "In a couple of months we'll all be millionaires."
"How?" asked the pimply youth blankly.