“Exactly. You buy the secret—leastways, I give it you—from Bearer—see?”
His voice failed him a little, and the stare continued. “I want to do the thing Enonymously. See?”
Still staring. Bert drifted on like a swimmer caught by a current. “Fact is, I'm going to edop' the name of Smallways. I don't want no title of Baron; I've altered my mind. And I want the money quiet-like. I want the hundred thousand pounds paid into benks—thirty thousand into the London and County Benk Branch at Bun Hill in Kent directly I 'and over the plans; twenty thousand into the Benk of England; 'arf the rest into a good French bank, the other 'arf the German National Bank, see? I want it put there, right away. I don't want it put in the name of Butteridge. I want it put in the name of Albert Peter Smallways; that's the name I'm going to edop'. That's condition one.”
“Go on!” said the secretary.
“The nex condition,” said Bert, “is that you don't make any inquiries as to title. I mean what English gentlemen do when they sell or let you land. You don't arst 'ow I got it. See? 'Ere I am—I deliver you the goods—that's all right. Some people 'ave the cheek to say this isn't my invention, see? It is, you know—THAT'S all right; but I don't want that gone into. I want a fair and square agreement saying that's all right. See?”
His “See?” faded into a profound silence.
The secretary sighed at last, leant back in his chair and produced a tooth-pick, and used it, to assist his meditation on Bert's case. “What was that name?” he asked at last, putting away the tooth-pick; “I must write it down.”
“Albert Peter Smallways,” said Bert, in a mild tone.
The secretary wrote it down, after a little difficulty about the spelling because of the different names of the letters of the alphabet in the two languages.
“And now, Mr. Schmallvays,” he said at last, leaning back and resuming the stare, “tell me: how did you ket hold of Mister Pooterage's balloon?”