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‘Well?” he had continued. “Didn't you and me chuck ourselves all over the bloomin' plyce and look through the British Museum and Westminster Abbey and the Office of 'Eraldry until we'd found the nyme of that there family with the double-'eaded lion? And, after Bansi 'ad wired me particulars, didn't I establish social relytions? Didn't I go down to Sussex and visit them—two-'eaded lions and mortgage and rotten grub and all? Didn't I do everything I bloody well could? Could anybody 'ave been more cyreful than me? And now—bilked, diddled—Gawd stroike me pink! That's wot I am! Done brown! Like a snut-nosed brat with the whoopin' cough and two left feet!”

Then he happened to glance at the newspaper headline, uttered the mysterious “Cricky!” laughed uproariously, and turned to the sandy-haired gentleman who was just about to decide that his employer had lost his reason.

“Don't you see?” he said. “Ain't Tollemache a son of that there two-'eaded lion family as much as 'Ector? And, with good old Sam Lewis puttin' on the thumb screws, ain't 'e every bit as down and out as 'Ector—Gawd bless 'em both? And 'e ain't as proud as 'Ector and I'll 'ave 'im eat out o' my 'and in no time. Mebbe it's even better, 'im bein' the older son. I ain't a religious man, 'avin' been too busy all my life and my people 'avin' been chapel folk, but I call this bloomin' providential!”