"Mr. Bundercombe!" she exclaimed feebly. "Mr. Bundercombe!"
"So this is your silly old fool, is it?" Rodwell hissed. "This is the old fool you could twist round your finger, who found the money for your manicure parlor, and who was in love with you, eh? What are you, anyway?" he added, turning furiously upon Mr. Bundercombe. "A cop? Is this why you were trying to put up to me a few weeks ago?"
Mr. Bundercombe waved aside the accusation.
"Nothing of the sort!" he declared.
"Then what is it you want?" Rodwell demanded. "Is it a share of the swag you're after?"
Mr. Bundercombe shook his head.
"I am afraid," he sighed, "there will not be any swag."
Rodwells face was the most vicious thing I had ever looked on; yet he kept his head. Mr. Bundercombe and I were an impossible proposition to an unarmed man.
"In the first place," Mr. Bundercombe said, "I must congratulate you most heartily on your scheme. I saw your double bolt across the road and jump into the car. Everyone's eyes were upon him. They never saw you slip round into the passage. Your double is, I presume, well supplied with an alibi and evidences of respectability?"
Rodwell nodded shortly.