"He's not worrying you now?" he asked anxiously.
"Nothing to talk on," answered Ruth. "He wants me still, I allow. Only he won't get me—not yet a bit anyways." She seemed quite casual about the danger that threatened her, Bobby noticed; even, he thought, quietly enjoying it.
That evening, when the Cherub touched on the point to his colleague, Mr. Spink turned in his india-rubber lips.
"It's an honour to be abused by a woman like that," he said. "She's a bad character—bad."
"She's not that, I swear!" cried Bobby warmly. "She may have exaggerated, or made a mistake, but bad she's not."
"I believe I've been in the parish longer than you have, Chislehurst," retorted the other crisply. "And presumably I know something about the people in it."
"You've not been in as long as Miss Trupp," retorted Bobby. "She's been here all her life."
Mr. Spink puffed at his cigar with uplifted chin and smiled.
"How's it getting on?" he asked.
"Pah!" muttered Bobby—"Cad!" and went out, rather white.