"I'd have made it less, if I'd known—you. I'd have paid up the £2,000," he said, with a groan.
Chelubai stopped our talk by again letting the car rip, which made Honest John Driver very busy holding on, till we came to Kilburn Hill. Half-way up it he had recovered himself enough to say, "How did you remove poor Pudleigh?"
"That's a trade secret," I said stiffly.
"I hope it wasn't a very painful death," he said, with a sigh.
"Death! Who said we killed him?" I said sharply. "Our agreement was that he should disappear for a fortnight."
Honest John Driver's face fell. "This is disappointing," he sighed. "He'll make a great fuss when he comes back."
"He won't make sixteen thousand pounds' worth of fuss," I said shortly, for he seemed to me to be lacking in common gratitude.
"That's true," he said more cheerfully. "And after all he can't do anything—anything at all."
"I expect he can't," I said.
For the rest of the way he was busy turning pale and holding on, and when at last we drew up before his offices his sigh of relief was almost a groan.
He shook hands warmly with each of us, and said, "Very pleased to have met you."
Then he removed his tall flabby bulk stiffly from
