Donnell's eyebrows came down.
"What do you mean, get you out of it? What about me?"
Weald clutched his arm.
"You don't understand. I've got to get away. I've got to take the girl with me. Is there any back way out of this — any bolt hole you've prepared? I've got money—"
Donnell thrust him roughly into a chair and pushed the whisky bottle towards him. Weald helped himself greedily to another half-glassful.
"Now you're talking," said Donnell. "How much?"
Weald dragged a note case from his pocket. It bulged. Donnell's eyes fastened on it hungrily.
"A thousand, Donnell. It's all I can spare. I've got to leave myself some money to get clear."
"Let's see it."
Feverishly Weald counted out the notes with shaking fingers and put them on the table. Donnell moistened his thumb and counted them deliberately. Then he put them in his pocket.