Jack stared at him.
“You’ve got a nerve,” he said in awe-stricken tones. “And now you’ve filled in your time and I’ve entertained you, you can get! Do you want anything to eat?”
“Not me,” said the tramp. “I live on the fat of the land, I do!”
His shrill Cockney voice was getting on Jack’s nerves.
“Well, good night,” he said shortly, and closed the door on his unprepossessing visitor.
The tramp waited for quite a long time before he made any move. Then, from the interior of his cap, he took a cigarette and lit it before he shuffled back the way he had come, making a long detour to avoid the centre of the town, where the unfriendly policeman was on duty. A church clock was striking a quarter past ten when he reached the corner of the Arundel Road, and, throwing away his cigarette, moved into the shadow of the fence and waited.
Five minutes, ten minutes passed, and his keen eyes caught sight of a man walking rapidly the way he had come, and he grinned in the darkness. It was Knebworth. Jack had been perturbed by the visitor, and was on his way to the police station to make inquiries about Michael. This the tramp guessed, though he had little time to consider the director’s movements, for a car came noiselessly around the corner and stopped immediately opposite him.
“Is that you, my friend?”
“Yes,” said the tramp in a sulky voice.
“Come inside.”