"Couldn't I? Well, never mind. Let's have a drink on it anyway."
Humphrey began his third Cannock, and the others drank whisky. One of them, in drinking, spilt a good deal of the liquor over his coat lapel, and did not bother to wipe it off: he was slightly drunk.
"It's bringing a bad reputation on the firm," said the elder man. "Name in all the papers."
Humphrey was seized with an idea. He knew now that the whole secret of the mystery was within his grasp. One of the men, at least, was from the solicitor's office. The instinct of the journalist made him courageous: he would never leave the bar until he got the story.
"I'll tell you what," he said, "I'll promise to keep the name of the firm out of The Day; I'll just refer to it as a firm of solicitors!"
"That's not a bad notion," said the younger man. He drew the elder man aside and they talked quietly for a few minutes. Then more drinks were ordered. Humphrey tackled his fourth Cannock. His head was just beginning to ache.
A tantalizing half-hour passed. The younger man seemed more friendly to Humphrey—he had some friends in Fleet Street; did Humphrey know them, and so on. The elder man was growing more drunk. He swayed a little now. Humphrey's ears buzzed, and his vision was not so acute. The outlines of people were blurred and indistinct. "Good lord," he murmured to himself, "I'm getting drunk too." He was pleasantly happy, and smiled into his sixth glass of beer. He confided to the elder man that he admired him for his constancy to the dead man, and they began to talk over the bad business as friends. The elder man even called him "Ol' chap." They really were very affectionate.
"But WHY did he do it?" said Humphrey; "that's what beats me."
"Oh, well, you see he was in love with this girl ..."