“That? One of these blarsted millionaires gone to ’is account,” said the driver with gloomy relish. “And serve ’im right, I say! Bloodsuckers, every one of ’em! Each for ’imself and the weakest goes to the wall—that’s capitalism for yer!”

He swung the heavy vehicle round a bend, forcing a cyclist into the hedge. Crabtree, hanging on with difficulty, neither saw nor heard. His whole attention was focused on the printed words before him.

“Twenty-seven Daylesford Gardens!” he murmured incredulously.

He read with difficulty, the words dancing up and down before his eyes to the jolting of the road. Then he saw something which almost caused him to tumble from his seat. From the mass of print one name stood out in heavy, accusing capitals—his own.

“’Strewth!” said Crabtree.

He was still staring at the paper in incredulous dismay when the lorry pulled up with a jerk. Looking up, he saw that they were on the crest of a steep hill. From the radiator cap came a thin jet of steam. The driver switched off the engine.

“Boiling again, as per usual,” he announced philosophically. “Now we’ll just ’ave to wait till ’er ’ighness is pleased to cool off. What’s the matter, comrade?”

Crabtree handed him over The Daily Toiler.

“Just look at that there,” he said. “Twenty-seven Daylesford Gardens—where I was in service. Colin James—the gent I was doing for. And me—the blighters have got me in it too!”

The driver studied the page for some time in silence. Then he took a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it.

“The perlice are anxious to interview”, he quoted, “Richard Crabtree. That you?”

“Yes, that’s me all right, mate, but——”

“Ar!” He pondered in silence for a while, and then: “The perlice, indeed! Well, sooner you than me. We’d best be getting on.”

A few hundred yards farther on the road crossed a small stream. Here he stopped the machine again, and produced a small tin jug, which he handed to Crabtree.

“Just get down and fill ’er up with water, will yer, comrade?” he said.

Crabtree was down at the waterside when he heard the roar of the engine being accelerated. He ran back just in time to see the lorry mount the bridge and disappear in a cloud of exhaust smoke. A voice floated back to his ears:

“I don’t want no dealings with the perlice, thank you, comrade!”

It had begun to rain. He was five miles from the nearest village, and his only possession in the world was an empty half-gallon tin jug.

9
INQUEST ON A FINANCIER

Wednesday, November 18th