"Saves turning in a narrow lane, you see," added Eves.
"Bedad, that would be a blessing to me this dark night," said O'Reilly. "But what is the trouble? Funds run out? Would you show me the plans, I'd find the capital—provided they'll work out, of course."
"Splendid!" cried Eves. "Here's the draft specification—but there's the rub; that smudge of ink. Look here, Bob, just set to work and copy your diagrams while I tell Mr. O'Reilly all about it, and he opens the fizz. We've no wine-glasses, only tumblers, but no one will mind that."
O'Reilly's face grew grave as he listened to the story told by Eves.
"That's bad," he said. "I stopped at the station a while ago to get a London evening paper, and I saw that mayor of yours, Noakes, step into the London train. There was another fellow with him, seeing him off."
"What sort of man?" asked Eves.
"A thick ruffian of a fellow in a long coat and a motor cap. I can't tell you which of them I dislike the most, by the faces of 'em, I mean—him or Noakes."
"That was Wilkins. There's no doubt I was right, Bob; Noakes has slunk off to London to get in first; and that was the last train!"
"Drink, my boys," said O'Reilly, who had meanwhile opened his bottle. "Health to ourselves, and confusion to Noakes. We'll get the top-side of him yet. There's one way to do it. 'Tis nine o'clock, and we are a hundred and sixty miles from London—that and a bit over. I'll drive you up in my car."
"Magnificent," cried Eves. "How long will your diagrams take, Bob?"