Doyle [returning].  Where the devil did you pick up that seedy swindler?  What was he doing here? [He goes up to the table where the plans are, and makes a note on one of them, referring to his pocket book as he does so].

Broadbent.  There you go!  Why are you so down on every Irishman you meet, especially if he’s a bit shabby? poor devil!  Surely a fellow-countryman may pass you the top of the morning without offence, even if his coat is a bit shiny at the seams.

Doyle [contemptuously].  The top of the morning!  Did he call you the broth of a boy? [He comes to the writing table].

Broadbent [triumphantly].  Yes.

Doyle.  And wished you more power to your elbow?

Broadbent.  He did.

Doyle.  And that your shadow might never be less?

Broadbent.  Certainly.

Doyle [taking up the depleted whisky bottle and shaking his head at it].  And he got about half a pint of whisky out of you.

Broadbent.  It did him no harm.  He never turned a hair.

Doyle.  How much money did he borrow?

Broadbent.  It was not borrowing exactly.  He showed a very honorable spirit about money.  I believe he would share his last shilling with a friend.

Doyle.  No doubt he would share his friend’s last shilling if his friend was fool enough to let him.  How much did he touch you for?

Broadbent.  Oh, nothing.  An advance on his salary—­for travelling expenses.

Doyle.  Salary!  In Heaven’s name, what for?

Broadbent.  For being my Home Secretary, as he very wittily called it.

Doyle.  I don’t see the joke.

Broadbent.  You can spoil any joke by being cold blooded about it.  I saw it all right when he said it.  It was something—­something really very amusing—­about the Home Secretary and the Irish Secretary.  At all events, he’s evidently the very man to take with me to Ireland to break the ice for me.  He can gain the confidence of the people there, and make them friendly to me.  Eh? [He seats himself on the office stool, and tilts it back so that the edge of the standing desk supports his back and prevents his toppling over].

Doyle.  A nice introduction, by George!  Do you suppose the whole population of Ireland consists of drunken begging letter writers, or that even if it did, they would accept one another as references?

Broadbent.  Pooh! nonsense!  He’s only an Irishman.  Besides, you don’t seriously suppose that Haffigan can humbug me, do you?

Doyle.  No:  he’s too lazy to take the trouble.  All he has to do is to sit there and drink your whisky while you humbug yourself.  However, we needn’t argue about Haffigan, for two reasons.  First, with your money in his pocket he will never reach Paddington:  there are too many public houses on the way.  Second, he’s not an Irishman at all.