“You met him!” he moaned. “You actually met him?”
“R,” said Mr. Billson. “When I was comin’ to the ’all. I seen ’im puttin’ all that money into a liddle bag, and then ’e ’urried off.”
“Good lord!” I cried. “Didn’t you suspect what he was up to?”
“R,” agreed Mr. Billson. “I always knew ’e was a wrong ’un.”
“Then why, you poor woollen-headed fish,” bellowed Ukridge, exploding, “why on earth didn’t you stop him?”
“I never thought of that,” admitted Mr. Billson, apologetically.
Ukridge laughed a hideous laugh.
“I just pushed ’im in the face,” proceeded Mr. Billson, “and took the liddle bag away from ’im.”
He placed on the table a small weather-worn suitcase that jingled musically as he moved it; then, with the air of one who dismisses some triviality from his mind, moved to the door.
“’Scuse me, gents,” said Battling Billson, deprecatingly. “Can’t stop. I’ve got to go and spread the light.”