"You didn't tell him—that they were genuine!" Burton gasped.
Mr. Waddington shook his head.
"No," he admitted, "I did not go so far as that. Still, it was almost as great a shock to me. I felt a distinct impulse to tell him that they were. A few days ago, such an idea would never have entered my head. It would have been a sheer impossibility."
"Anything else?"
Mr. Waddington hesitated. He seemed to be feeling the shame of these avowals.
"This morning," he confessed, "I passed the door of the Golden Lion on my way to the office. For the first time since—you know when—I felt a desire—a faint desire but still it was there—to go in and chaff Milly and have a pint of beer in a tankard. I didn't go, of course, but I felt the impulse, nevertheless."
Burton had turned very pale.
"This," he exclaimed, "is terrible! What have you done with the rest of the beans?"
"I have nine," Mr. Waddington replied. "I carry them in my waistcoat pocket. I am perfectly convinced now that there is trouble ahead, for on my way up the stairs here I felt a strong inclination to tell you that I had lost them, in case you should want any."
"It would be only fair," Burton declared warmly, "to divide them." Mr.
Waddington frowned.