The story went on—When the lobster had been finally dismembered in a struggle between Bill and a fellow who was a rank outsider, Bundle brought her attention back to him.
"I see," she said. "And there was a row?"
"Yes, but it was my lobster. I'd bought it and paid for it. I had a perfect right—"
"Oh! you had, you had," said Bundle hastily. "But I'm sure that's all forgotten now. And I don't care for lobsters anyway. So let's go."
"We may be raided by the police. There's a room upstairs where they play baccarat."
"Father will have to come out and bail me out, that's all. Come on, Bill."
Bill still seemed rather reluctant, but Bundle was adamant, and they were soon speeding to their destination in a taxi.
The place, when they got to it, was much as she imagined it would be. It was a tall house in a narrow street, 14 Hunstanton Street; she noted the number.
A man whose face was strangely familiar opened the door. She thought he started slightly when he saw her, but he greeted Bill with respectful recognition. He was a tall man, with fair hair, a rather weak, anaemic face and slightly shifty eyes. Bundle puzzled to herself where she could have seen him before.
Bill had recovered his equilibrium now and quite enjoyed doing showman. They danced in the cellar, which was very full of smoke—so much so that you saw everyone through a blue haze. The smell of fried fish was almost overpowering.