The Angel, seeing his human friend and ward, made him a suggestion at once:
"You ass!" he blew into McTaggart's ear. "Put it in the Rozzer's pocket." The Devil began to object violently.
"You shut up!" said the Angel, turning to him annoyed. "I'll come back and talk to you about it later!" Then he turned again to McTaggart, and pumped brilliant thoughts into his same ear with such violence that the young man's soul was all irradiated and full and he suddenly thought himself a genius. Such is the vanity of man! So little do we recognise inspiration from on high!
"It's as easy," prompted the Angel, "as falling off a log. All you've got to do is to say you've met him, and tell him who you are. He'll know you're from the Press—you look like it—and he'll think he's met you. Then slip it into his pocket, bully boy! Slip it into his pocket!"
And all the time McTaggart was saying within his own soul: "That's a brilliant idea! Now I don't suppose anyone else would have an idea like that! But, there! I'm always getting good ideas at the right time!"
He stalked his host and Collop round the top of the stairs and down the long passage above.
He saw the door open; he heard the Home Secretary say cheerfully, "There's a bath through that door. Have you got everything you want? I hope they've unpacked your things?"
He heard the cheerful voice of Collop reply: "Right-o! Everything in the garden's lovely!"
He saw the Home Secretary go off with a very changed expression in the gloom of the passage. He flattened himself in a deep doorway, a little angry that he should be playing the spy—but necessity drove him. He waited till he had heard his host go down the stairs; then he knocked at the detective's bedroom door. Full of angelic inspiration—which human pride mistook for genius—he entered in.
"Mr. Collop," he said without hesitation, "you know me? Hamish McTaggart—the Daily Sun? ... You'll excuse me for not using your real name?" And he smiled.