Near the window lolled a young gentleman, who was well dressed and be-jewelled, and who had a lighted cigar between his kid-gloved fingers.
He must have wandered in there for a few moments from curiosity, unless he was one of those gentlemen by birth but not by breeding, who drink the dregs of society by preference.
Mr. Wrench recognised these as the last-named two men who had been so energetic during the hustle.
“Bring us a greybeard of Husser and Squencher,” said a rustic in a smock frock, who was seated near to the detective. (A greybeard is one of those jugs commonly used in ale-houses with the face of an old man on it. Husser and Squencher is a drain of gin and a quart of beer mixed).
“That was a bad job,” observed a rustic, addressing the man in the green shade, “that ’ere job in Larchgrove-lane.”
“I’ve not heerd on it,” said the man with the green shade; “what was it?”
When Nell Fulford heard the man with the shade speak she gave a start, and half rose from her seat. Mr. Wrench placed his hand on her shoulder, and by a motion of his head signified that she was to remain quiet.
She obeyed, and shrank back farther into the corner, behind a settle, and listened with gleaming eyes.
Situated as she and her two companions were, they could not be seen by the man with the green shade.
The rustic, who had already alluded to the tragedy, now gave a brief account of the same for the edification of those present.