CHAPTER FIFTEEN“I tell you wot, c**k,” said Mr Lugg, looking at an enormous gold hunter which had been entirely ruined, from his point of view, by an engraved tribute in the back which rendered it of little interest to pawnbrokers. “I tell you wot. She’s not coming.”
Mr Campion turned away from his sitting-room window and wandered across the carpet, his lean dinner-jacketed shoulders hunched.
“A nasty little girl,” he observed. “Take the crème-de-menthe away. Drink it if you like.”
“And smell like a packet o’ hiccorf suckers. I know.” Lugg waddled to the coffee table and restored the offending bottle to the cocktail cabinet. “You treat me as a sort of joke, don’t you?” he remarked, his great white face complacent. “I’m a regular clown. I make you laugh. I say funny things, don’t I?”
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