“I scarcely know.”
“Then you’re coming down with me.”
“Shan’t I be rather in the way?”
“I hope so,” said the Labour M.P.
A swift walker, the Labour M.P., and one with whom it was not easy to keep pace; he talked at a corresponding rate, so that by the time they reached the office of the London Railway Carmen’s Society, he was showing signs of exhaustion, and the duty of talking to Spanswick, who was perched on the window-sill on the landing, devolved upon Erb. Spanswick wore a look of perturbation and showed some desire not to look at Erb in speaking to him; he puffed at a ragged cigar, at which he glanced now and again with deep regret.
“I can’t make ’ead or tail of it,” said Spanswick, despondently. “It’s a mystery, that’s what it is. Why I should have trusted that man with untold gold.”
“After all I’ve done for him, too,” went on Spanswick. “I’ve treated him like a brother, I have; I might go so far as to say I’ve treated him more like a friend than a brother. It was only last night that we were ’aving a few friendly glasses together—I paid for the last, worse luck!—and he was talking about what he was going to do for the Society, and all the time he must have had this letter in his pocket, ready to pop in the post.”
“Where’s the key to this door?” asked the Labour M.P. sharply.
“He might well call himself Mister Doubleday,” went on Spanswick, finding the key in his pocket, “I’ve never been more deceived in anybody in all my life. Him and me has been pals for over six weeks, and this is how he turns round and treats me.”