“Pamela is quite an unusual name for a girl of the lower classes. In what way is Parkins interested?”
The mild eye of Mr. J. Crichton smouldered into faint flame.
“The lower classes! The——”
“I asked you a question.”
Mr. Crichton hesitated, glanced around his shop—his own shop—noted that his pugilistic friend was entering the door with an air of business-like truculence, and took his elusive courage in both hands.
“I decline to be cross-examined—by you—or—by——”
Mr. Parkins closed the shop-door, bolted it, and pulled down the blue blind. He began deliberately to remove his coat.
“Half a mo, Mr. C.,” he interrupted in a quivering voice. “Sorry to put you out, but it’s got to be done. I’ll smash ’im; then you can call for the police and give ’im in charge!”
O’Hagan raised the monocle swung upon the broad black ribbon, and holding it at some distance from his right eye, surveyed the speaker.
“I thought I forbade you to address me?” he remarked icily.