He'd be all right as Public Prosecutor, a
sort of Sir Galahad waving the banner of virtue, but he hates to
stuff his pockets at the expense of the criminal classes."
"Who the mischief are the criminal classes?" a police court
magistrate demanded. "Personally, I call war profiteering
criminal, I call a good many Stock Exchange deals criminal, and,"
he added, turning to a member of the committee who was hovering
in the background, "I call it criminal to expect us to drink
French vermouth like this."
"There is another point of view," the latter retorted. "I call
it a crime to expect a body of intelligent men to administer
without emolument to the greed of such a crowd of rotters.
You'll get the right stuff next week."
The hall-porter approached and addressed Wilmore.
"Mr. Ledsam is outside in a taxi, sir," he announced.
"Outside in a taxi?" the lawyer repeated. "Why on earth can't he
come in?"
"I never heard such rot," another declared. "Let's go and rope
him in."
"Mr. Ledsam desired me to say, sir," the hall porter continued,
"to any of his friends who might be here, that he will be in to
lunch to-morrow."
"Leave him to me till then," Wilmore begged. "He'll be all right
directly. He's simply altering his bearings and taking his time
about it. If he's promised to lunch here to-morrow, he will.
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