"It's not me," screamed Simpkins. "I swear to heaven it's not mine. This man's trying to put it across me."
"Me?" gasped Walters. "Me? Why, you filthy, murdering brute, I tell you I saw it fall off your carrier. No wonder you blinded off when you saw me coming. Arrest him, constable. Take him away to prison——"
"Hullo, officer!" said a voice behind them. "What's all the excitement? You haven't seen a motor-cyclist go by with a little bag on his carrier, I suppose?"
A big open car with an unnaturally long bonnet had slipped up to them, silent as an owl. The whole agitated party with one accord turned upon the driver.
"Would this be it, sir?"
The motorist pushed off his goggles, disclosing a long, narrow nose and a pair of rather cynical-looking grey eyes.
"It looks rather——" he began; and then, catching sight of the horrid relic protruding from one corner, "In God's name," he enquired, "what's that?"
"That's what we'd like to know, sir," said the constable grimly.
"H'm," said the motorist, "I seem to have chosen an uncommonly suitable moment for enquirin' after my bag. Tactless. To say now that it is not my bag is simple, though in no way convincing. As a matter of fact, it is not mine, and I may say that, if it had been, I should not have been at any pains to pursue it."
The constable scratched his head.