"Right, that's what I think myself. I've cheated the beaks, eh?"
Harding was silent. The man looked sharply at him.
"You've got that address written down?"
"Yes, but I can't send that paper."
"You can't send it?"
The words dropped slowly from the man's lips.
"Of course I can't," returned Harding. "You know that well enough."
"You won't send it," repeated the man again, with a dull rage in his voice. The paper was still clutched in his hand, and he looked at it and then up at Harding. "There's a fortin in it," he whispered under his breath. "Bill 'ull go shares. Here, you take it. You go to 5 Princes Street, top floor, and ask for Bill Clay. He'll go shares, and thankful."
Harding made no attempt to take the paper. He merely said:
"Tear it up if you like, but if you give it to me I shall hand it over to the police."