“Came yesterday, I b’lieve.”
They now arrived in front of a dirty-looking beershop, which was the house they were bound for. The man, who was potman to the establishment, led the way in. He passed the bar, and pointed to a room in the rear of the premises.
Peace entered. A solitary person was in the apartment. This was Cooney.
“Well,” said Peace, offering his hand, “we meet again once more. How goes it with you?”
“Precious bad—jolly bad; haven’t got a stiver. Am bust up—that’s how I am.”
Peace took hold of one of the ricketty wooden chairs, which he drew towards the fire, and sat down beside his quondam pal.
“You managed to give ’em the slip, then?” said Cooney, with a chuckle. “But the old un’s grabbed.”
“So I’ve heard. It was a bad night’s work altogether.”
“Aye, that it was.”
“How did you manage to get away?”