“Not more'n ten minutes or so. I don't get about so fast as wot I useter,” said Mr. Biggleswade, flattered to find himself with an attentive audience at last. “And there was young Reg! If you'd 'ave paid more 'eed to wot I told you yesterday, you'd 'ave 'ad 'im safe under lock and key by this time.”
“Well, I might,” said Hemingway, getting up. “That is, if I knew what he was doing, hanging about the scene of the crime, instead of making his getaway.”
“Ah! That's telling,” said Mr. Biggleswade darkly.
“It is, isn't it? I shall have to be getting along now, grandfather. Don't you go sitting it the Red Lion till that daughter of yours has to come and drag you out! Nice goings-on at your time of life!”
The ancient reprobate seemed pleased with this sally, and cackled asthmatically. Hemingway waved to him, and began to walk away.
“'Ere!” Mr. Biggleswade called after him. “Will I 'ave me pitcher in the papers?”
“That's telling too!” replied Hemingway over his shoulder.
“Rogues' gallery, I should think!” said Harbottle, falling into step beside him. “What on earth made you encourage him to hand you all that lip?”
“I don't mind his lip. I reckon he's entitled to cheek the police, when they haven't been able to catch up with him in ninety years. He's a very remarkable old boy, and a lot sharper than the silly fools who say he's getting soft in the head. I wanted to hear some more about that shot of his.”
“Why?” demanded the Inspector.