'I have.'
'Then hand it over.'
Mr Burton held out a tremulous hand.
'Half a mo. I've got a word or two to say before we come to that. I should like you to understand how I did get it. It wasn't for the asking, I'd have you know.'
The gentleman in the arm-chair interposed. He waved his cigar.
'One moment.'
'Two, if you like, Mr Cox.'
He was a little, paunchy man, with 'Jew' written so large all over him that one asked oneself why he had been so ungrateful to his forefathers as to associate himself with such a name as Cox--Thomas Cox. He got out of his chair, which was much too large for him, so that he could see the Flyman, who still kept himself modestly in the background. He punctuated his words by making little dabs in the air with his cigar.
'What we want is the ruby; that's all we want. We don't want the schedule of your adventures. We're not interested. You understand?'
'Yes, I understand you, Mr Cox, but it don't go.'