Sir. P. (absently). Yes—yes, it shall be attended to; but leave us, my child, go. Bleshugh, this—er—gentleman and I have business of importance to discuss.
Spiker. Don't let us drive you away, Miss; your Pa and me are only talking over old times, that's all—eh, Posh?
Sir P. (in a tortured aside). Have a care, Sir, don't drive me too far! (To Verb.) Leave us, I say. (Lord B. and Verb. go out, raising their eyebrows.) Now, Sir, what is this secret you profess to have discovered?
Spiker. Oh, a mere nothing. (Takes out a cigar.) Got a light about you? Thanks. Perhaps you don't recollect twenty-seven years ago this very day, travelling from Edgware Road to Baker Street, by the Underground Railway?
Sir P. Perfectly; it was my thirteenth birthday, and I celebrated the event by a visit to Madame Tussaud's.
Spiker. Exactly; it was your thirteenth birthday, and you travelled second-class with a half-ticket—(meaningly)—on your thirteenth birthday.
Sir P. (terribly agitated). Fiend that you are, how came you to learn this?
Spiker. Very simple. I was at that time in the temporary position of ticket-collector at Baker Street. In the exuberance of boyhood, you cheeked me. I swore to be even with you some day.
Sir P. Even if—if your accusation were well-founded, how are you going to prove it?
Sp. Oh, that's easy! I preserved the half-ticket, on the chance that I should require it as evidence hereafter.