"I'll—I'll make it worth your while, Tunstall," he said desperately. "As to the cause, why, we've been to Guildford. There was an accident on the way back. The steering gear of the car went wrong and we were turned over. That man Ranger, who was driving, was killed. Now, the police will find him and the car on the road. It's plain he was killed by accident, and there's not the smallest need for our names to appear. All we could do would be to corroborate the story of the accident. But we don't want to do that, for we'd been breaking bounds. Now, a sovereign if you help us."
Tunstall held out a grimy palm.
"Put it there, sir," he leered. "I'll swear as you was here all day a drinkin' corfee and——"
"Not all day," Trendall corrected him. "We came just before twelve and left at three. That makes it impossible for us to have been at Guildford."
"Then you come here at twelve and left at three. You was drinkin' corfee and jawin' and what not. Put it there, Mr. Rawlings."
"I can't now, but at the end of the week," came the lame answer. "I've given my last sovereign to-day. But I'll easily get more, and——"
"Oh, ho!" cried Tunstall, looking cunningly at them. "You ain't got the stuff on you, but you've got promises. Well, any man is rich with them. Gold's gold, Mr. Rawlings, and without it a man can't speak, nor take risks, which is a deal more, I can tell ye."
"But—what do you mean?" asked Rawlings desperately, afraid to lose his temper and abuse the man. "My word is good enough, surely? If I say I will pay you a pound, that money is as good as paid."
"In course. In course, sir. But gold's gold, as I've said. Promises ain't worth half, or even that. I could ha' done this here job for twenty shillings, but for a promise of twenty, no. It ain't possible."
"Then how much?" asked Trendall, his fat cheeks shaking with apprehension, for he could now see the importance of possessing an alibi. "How much for the job?"