During this long speech Sir Jeremiah Walton had put his head more and more on one side and watched with greater and greater interest the features and the delivery of Batterby. But all he said was: “You were right about John K., Batterby. And s’posing we wanted a story from yer to-night, Batterby, what could yer give us?”
“Well, Sir Jeremiah,” answered Batterby, thinking slowly, “there have been no letters or anything between us.”
“That’s all right,” said Sir Jeremiah, waving his hand. “We’ll ’ave that settled before you leave,” and he named a figure.
“I have got what they’re saying of the Duke’s own last little affair,” said Batterby at last. “The Hotel in Rome. Him being kicked down the main staircase,” he explained with a beautiful candor.
“Don’t want that,” said Sir Jeremiah, shaking his head, but this time laughing openly. “Dog don’t eat dog.”
“I’ve got the story they’re sending to Paris to-night, which was to have come out first in Paris and then in London next day. They’ve squared the Messenger, Sir Jeremiah. If you like it you can have it.”
“Eh?” snapped that politician eagerly. “Not the Foreign Office Note?” Batterby nodded. “By Go—Gum! That’s the style!” The knight was radiant. He was so moved that he opened a bottle of ginger ale, filled a glass and offered it to his guest. “That’s the style! Ye’re a trump, Batterby! Ye’re a trump!”
“Best respects,” said Batterby, lifting the ginger ale and falling into the manner of his youth.
“Granted, I am sure,” said Sir Jeremiah courteously. “We don’t allow anything stronger than that, yer know, Batterby.” And he winked, “Not ’ere, any’ow.” And he winked again.
“I know, sir, I know,” answered the other, conscious that the “Dragon” was within call.