"I think you must have forgotten," said Kirkwood quietly. "I hate to trouble you, but—there's that matter of four pounds."
Stryker's face was expressive only of mystified vacuity. "Four quid? I dunno as I know just wot you means."
"You agreed to advance me four pounds on those things of mine...."
"Ow-w!" Illumination overspread the hollow-jowled countenance. Stryker smiled cheerfully. "Garn with you!" he chuckled. "You will 'ave yer little joke, won't you now? I declare I never see a loony with such affecsh'nit, pl'yful wyes!"
Kirkwood's eyes narrowed. "Stryker," he said steadily, "give me the four pounds and let's have no more nonsense; or else hand over my things at once."
"Daffy," Stryker told vacancy, with conviction. "Lor' luv me if I sees 'ow he ever 'ad sense enough to escype. W'y, yer majesty!" and he bowed, ironic. "I 'ave given you yer quid."
"Just about as much as I gave you that pearl pin," retorted Kirkwood hotly. "What the devil do you mean—"
"W'y, yer ludship, four pounds jus pyes yer passyge; I thought you understood."
"My passage! But I can come across by steamer for thirty shillings, first-class—"
"Aw, but them steamers! Tricky, they is, and unsyfe ... No, yer gryce, the W. Stryker Packet Line Lim'ted, London to Antwerp, charges four pounds per passyge and no reduction for return fare."