"I tell you I can't find it," he said; "the thing slipped out of my hand—a small thing like that easily might. What's the good of making a fuss about a ring not worth £20? Search my pockets if you like. What a murderous-looking dog you are when you're out of temper!"
All this in a vague, rambling way, in a slightly foreign accent. David touched him on the shoulder.
"Won't you come back with me to Brighton?" he said.
"Certainly," was the ready response; "you look a good sort of chap. I'll go anywhere you please. Not that I've got a penny of money left. What a spree it has been. Who are you?"
"My name is Steel. I am David Steel, the novelist."
A peculiarly cunning look came over Van Sneck's face.
"I got your letter," he said. "And I came. It was after I had had that row with Henson. Henson is a bigger scoundrel than I am, though you may not think it."
"I accept your statement implicitly," David said, drily.
"Well, he is. And I got your letter. And I called…. And you nearly killed me. And I dropped it down in the corner of the conservatory."
"Dropped what?" David asked, sharply.