His hand rested on the round piece of wood that framed the push-button, but he did not ring the bell.
Nick gave vent to a hollow groan, sank to his knees, and covered his face with his hands.
“Look here, you!” growled the man with the gun. “You’re pretty well dressed for a man working this sort of graft.”
“I’ve seen better days,” sniffed Nick.
“Bother! Better days don’t count. It’s what you are to-day, not last week, or last year. What do you call yourself?”
“My real name do you want, or the one I have been going by?”
“The one you go by now.”
“Chuffer Jones.”
The man with the gun gave a start.
“Chuffer!” he exclaimed. “You mean Chauffeur, don’t you?”