We had sunk into a melancholy silence, when suddenly Belcher sprang up from the table.
“Hark!” he cried. “Listen to that!”
“What is it?” we cried, all three.
“The betting! Listen again!”
Out of the babel of voices and roaring of wheels outside the window a single sentence struck sharply on our ears.
“Even money upon Sir Charles’s nominee!”
“Even money!” cried my uncle. “It was seven to one against me, yesterday. What is the meaning of this?”
“Even money either way,” cried the voice again.
“There’s somebody knows something,” said Belcher, “and there’s nobody has a better right to know what it is than we. Come on, sir, and we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
The village street was packed with people, for they had been sleeping twelve and fifteen in a room, whilst hundreds of gentlemen had spent the night in their carriages. So thick was the throng that it was no easy matter to get out of the George. A drunken man, snoring horribly in his breathing, was curled up in the passage, absolutely oblivious to the stream of people who flowed round and occasionally over him.