“I’m at least alive,” cried Twiddel, warming with sympathy for himself, “which I probably wouldn’t be for long in Mr Essington’s company.”
“I don’t blame your nerves, dear boy,” said Welsh, with a smile that showed all his teeth, “only your head. Here are £500 going a-begging. There must be some way——” He paused, deep in reflection. “How would it do,” he remarked in a minute, “if I were to go in your place?”
Twiddel laughed and shook his head.
“Couldn’t be managed?”
“Couldn’t possibly, I’m afraid.”
“No,” said Welsh. “I foresee difficulties.”
He fished a pipe out of his pocket, filled and lit it, and leaned back in his chair gazing at the ceiling.
“Twiddel, my boy,” he said at length, “will you give me a percentage of the fee if I think of a safe dodge for getting the money and preserving your throat?”
Twiddel laughed.
“Rather!” he said.