“Right. That’s your job. That’s all right. Get as much sulphur as you can—saltpetre to make it burn. Sent? Charing Cross. Right away. See they do it. Follow it up. Anything?”
He thought a moment.
“Plaster of Paris—any sort of plaster—bung up nest—holes—you know. That I’d better get.”
“How much?”
“How much what?”
“Sulphur.”
“Ton. See?”
Bensington tightened his glasses with a hand tremulous with determination. “Right,” he said, very curtly.
“Money in your pocket?” asked Cossar.
“Hang cheques. They may not know you. Pay cash. Obviously. Where’s your bank? All right. Stop on the way and get forty pounds—notes and gold.”