"Where have you been?" I asked, a strange misgiving stealing into my mind.
"Have you been talking to Mr. Ansell like this?"
"Ansell? No! Who's he?" Mr. Bundercombe inquired.
"My agent."
Mr. Bundercombe shook his head.
"Chap I palled up with was called Harrison."
I groaned.
"You've been to the other fellow's agent," I told him; "the agent for the
Radical candidate."
Mr. Bundercombe whistled.
"You don't say!" he murmured. "Well, I'll tell you what it is, Paul, there are no flies on that chap! He's a real nippy little worker—that's what he is! If you take my advice," he went on persuasively, "you'll swap. We'll make it worth his while to come over. I've seen your Mr. Ansell—if that's his name. I saw the name on a brass plate and I saw him come out of his office—stiff, starched sort of chap, with a thin face and gray side whiskers!"
"That's the man," I admitted. "He and his father before him, and his grandfather, have been solicitors to my people for I don't know how many years!"