“Have you ever in all your life seen a cheque for twenty pounds?”
“Yes!”
“Made payable to yourself?”
“Yes!”
“And signed by—”
“Yes, yes, go on.”
“Nothing more to say,” remarked Mr. Doubleday. “There’s an end of the matter. Only it’s rather a pretty circumstance altogether, don’t you think? This self-sacrificing chap who has allowed himself to be sold up publicly as a protest against harmful trades, is the same man who earlier in the year was speaking throughout the length and breadth of the land in support of trade infinitely more harmful than the one carried on in Neckinger Road. And,” here Mr. Doubleday took down his elderly silk hat and made elaborate pretence of smoothing the nap, “getting uncommonly well paid for it, too. Pretty situation, isn’t it?”
“There’s a very good answer to the charge you bring against me,” said Erb, trying to keep his temper, “but there’s no earthly reason why I should give it. I’m not responsible to you; I am responsible to my society.”
“Ah,” cried Mr. Doubleday, putting his hat on jauntily, “glad you recognise that.”
“I do recognise it.”