"Grateful that you're alive, Tom," said the colonel, and the servant's face went hard.
"None of that, colonel," he snarled; "you can't afford to talk 'fresh' with me. I know a great deal more about you than you suppose. You think I've got no brains."
"I know you have brains, Tom," said the colonel, "but you can't use 'em."
"Can't I, eh? I haven't been looking after you for four or five years and doing your dirty work, colonel, without picking up a little intelligence—and a little information! You'd look comic if they put me in the witness box!"
He was gaining courage at the very mildness of the man of whom he once stood in terror.
"So you've come for the pickings?" said the colonel, ignoring his threat. "Well, help yourself."
He went to the sideboard, poured himself out a little whisky and sat down by the window to watch the man search. Tom pulled open another drawer and closed it again.
"Now look here, colonel," he said, "I haven't made so much money out of this business as you have. Things are pretty bad with me, and I think the least you can do is to give me something to remember you by."
The colonel did not answer. Apparently his thoughts were wandering.
"Tom," he said after awhile, "do you remember three months ago I bought a lot of old cinema films?"