While he was buttoning his coat in the hall he heard Mr. Eastlake’s voice sounding through his office door:
“No, Bulmore—and we are not likely to have any more work for you either.”
“But why, old man? Why?”
“I might ask you why—why you told us those wonderful tales about your clever friend. He’s let us in for a couple of thousand feet that aren’t worth the price of fixing salts.”
“Whew! That’s bad! I thought he’d be all right—straight I did.”
“But why turn him on to us if you wanted the job yourself?”
There was a pause; then Bulmore’s voice:
“He was dead broke, and I wanted to do him a good turn.”
“At our expense.”
“And my own, old man, by the looks of it.”