"Get out!"
"Give me five minutes." The tone was servile, yet not wholly so. "Worth your while, Mr. Bullard."
Bullard looked him up and down. "Very well," he said abruptly. "Close that door and follow me." He said no more until they were in his room, himself seated at his desk, the other standing a little way off and turning his bowler hat between his hands.
"Now, Marvel, what the devil do you want?"
The visitor smiled deprecatingly into his revolving hat. "What do most of us want, Mr. Bullard?"
"I'll tell you what most of us do not want—the attentions of the police."
"Tut, tut, Mr. Bullard. Of course we don't want that, nor do we need it—do we?" The impudence of the fellow's manner was exquisite.
Bullard, toying with the nugget on his chain, affected not to notice it.
Harshly he said: "Eighteen months ago—"
"In this very room, Mr. Bullard—"
"—I handed you five hundred pounds on the express condition that you used the ticket for Montreal, which I supplied, and never approached me again."