“That won’t do,” he said, in a metallic voice.
“Now, my dear old horse——”
“It’s no good trying anything like that on me. I want my money, or I’m going to call a policeman. Now, then!”
“But, laddie, be reasonable.”
“Made a mistake in not getting it in advance. But now’ll do. Out with it!”
“But I keep telling you Previn’s bolted!”
“He’s certainly bolted,” I put in, trying to be helpful.
“That’s right, mister,” said a voice at the door. “I met ’im sneakin’ away.”
It was Wilberforce Billson. He stood in the doorway diffidently, as one not sure of his welcome. His whole bearing was apologetic. He had a nasty bruise on his left cheek and one of his eyes was closed, but he bore no other signs of his recent conflict.
Ukridge was gazing upon him with bulging eyes.