"What's the matter? That's my collar when you've done with it. Drop it, please!"
"Hand over that paper."
"What paper?"
"The paper you're taking to Redmead. Quick—out with it!"
Wyndham, though he did not appreciate the man's grip on his collar, was enjoying the joke. He could see what had happened. The man had mistaken him for "that Garside fellow" down the well.
"I would like to oblige you, but I really don't know what you're talking about. I haven't any paper."
By this time the second man had arrived on the scene. His sharp, ferrety eyes, which—like the eyes of a cat—seemed capable of seeing in the darkness, immediately went to Wyndham's face.
"Hi, Brockman! Hi! What are you doing? You have got hold of the wrong boy!"
"The wrong boy!" exclaimed the man addressed as Brockman. "Are you sure?"
"Certain! Where are your eyes?"