After the blazing sun and the dust, the cool bar of the old-fashioned little village inn, with its sanded floor and its brasses gleaming in the soft twilight, was remarkably welcome.
Roger buried his nose thankfully in his tankard before getting to business.
“My word, that’s good!” he observed in heartfelt tones to the landlord, setting the tankard down half empty on the polished counter. “There’s nothing like beer for thirst, is there?”
“That’s true enough, sir,” replied the landlord heartily, both because it was good for trade and because he thoroughly believed it. “And you can’t have too much of it on a day like this, I’m thinking,” he added, with an eye to the former consideration.
Roger looked about him appreciatively.
“Nice little place you’ve got here.”
“Not so bad, sir. There ain’t a better bar parlour within ten miles, though I say it as shouldn’t. You two gentlemen come far to-day?”
“Elchester,” said Roger briefly. He did not wish to divulge the fact that he was staying at Layton Court, having no desire to waste time in parrying the stream of questions that would inevitably result from this information.
“Ah, then, you would have a thirst on you and all,” the landlord remarked approvingly.
“We have,” agreed Roger, finishing up the contents of his tankard, “so you can fill these up again for us.”