“Now, get up,” said some one, “and don’t give us any more trouble. It’s no use.”
The barrister, who had had his wind knocked out of him, rose to his knees. Then, as the light fell upon the horrified face of Mr. White, he vainly essayed to keep up the pretence of indignation. Once fairly on his feet, he nearly collapsed with laughter. He leaned against the wall, and, as his breath came again, he laughed until his sides ached.
Meanwhile the detective was crimson with rage and annoyance. His two assistants did not know what to make of the affair.
“What’s wrong, Jim?” said one at last. “Isn’t this Corbett?”
“No, of course it’s not,” was his angry growl.
“Then who the —— is it?”
“Oh, ask me another! How on earth could I guess, Mr. Bruce, that you’d come letting yourself in here with a latchkey?”
Claude was still holding his sore ribs and could not answer; but the policeman who had questioned White caught the name. He recognized it, and grinned at his companion.
“What did you want here, anyhow?” snarled the infuriated detective, as he realized that his great coup would be retailed with embellishments through every police station in the metropolis.