“He hadn’t got a gun.”
“Well, old Tilbury asserts that he was shoving something against his pocket from inside.”
“His finger, or a pipe.”
“No, I say, really!” Mr. Braddock’s voice betrayed the utmost astonishment and admiration. “Would that be it? I call that clever.”
“Well, he hadn’t a gun when I caught him or he would have used it on me. What happened then?”
“How do you mean—caught him?”
“I found him burgling the house.”
“Was that chap who called me brother a burglar?” cried Mr. Braddock, amazed. “I thought he was your man.”
“Well, he wasn’t. What happened next?”
“The bloke proceeded to de-bag old Tilbury. Then shoving on the trousers, he started to leg it. Old Tilbury at this juncture appears to have said ‘Hi! What about me?’ or words to that effect; upon which the bloke replied, ‘Use your own judgment!’ and passed into the night. When I came in, old Tilbury was in the drawing-room, wearing the evening paper as a sort of kilt and not looking too dashed pleased with things in general.”