“My name is Turl.”
“Before I get through with you, you won't have any name at all. You'll just have a number. I don't intend to compound. If you offered me my money back at this moment, I wouldn't take it. I'll get it, or what's left of it, but after due course of law. You're a great change artist, you are. We'll see what another transformation'll make you look like. We'll see how clipped hair and a striped suit'll become you.”
Larcher glanced in sympathetic alarm at Turl; but the latter seemed perfectly at ease.
“You appear to be laboring under some sort of delusion,” he replied. “Your name, I believe, is Bagley.”
“You'll find out what sort of delusion it is. It's a delusion that'll go through; it's not like your illusion, as you call it—and very ill you'll be—”
“How do you know I call it that?” asked Turl, quickly. “I never spoke of having an illusion, in your presence—or till this evening.”
Bagley turned redder, and looked somewhat foolish.
“You must have been overhearing,” added Turl.
“Well, I don't mind telling you I have been,” replied Bagley, with recovered insolence.
“It isn't necessary to tell me, thank you. And as that door is a thick one, you must have had your ear to the keyhole.”