But the only response was a dull shake of the insignificant head and the sulky rejoinder: “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mister. I’ll chuck anybody you like and come over to you with pleasure if you will stand the price of a ticket to St. Albans.”
The persistent denial was as absurd as the suggested reason for his presence under the seat, and Beaumanoir began to lose patience. “I suppose,” he said, “that you will maintain that you did not go to Mr. Forsyth’s chambers in John Street last night under the pretence of being a chemist’s messenger?”
“Never been in John Street in my life,” came back the pat and obvious lie.
It seemed useless to argue further, and Beaumanoir preserved silence till the train ran into Radlett Station, when he put into practice the course he had decided upon. At least he would force the creature to disclosure and put him to some inconvenience, as it was possible that thereby he might disconcert his plans, whatever they might be. Lowering the window, he called to the guard, and informed the astonished official that he had found a man traveling under the seat without a ticket.
Then uprose the righteous wrath of the
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