“Ronnie,” he said, “I am going straight to Sir Deryck Brand. He is the only man I know, with a head on his shoulders.”
“Thank you,” said Ronnie. “I suppose I dandle mine on my knee. But why this urgent need of a man with his head so uniquely placed?”
“Because,” said Billy, “that telegram is a lie.”
“Nonsense, Billy! The wish is father to the thought! Oh, shame on you, Billy! Poor old Ingleby!”
“It is a lie,” repeated Billy, doggedly.
“But look,” objected Ronald, unfolding the telegram. “Here you are. ‘Veritas.’ What do you make of that?”
“Veritas be hanged!” said Billy. “It’s a lie; and we’ve got to find out what damned rascal has sent it.”
“But what possible reason have you to throw doubt on it?” inquired Ronald, gravely.
“Oh, confound you!” burst out Billy at last; “I picked up the pieces!”