“Didn’t I tell you? It was crool to see him. He got it into ’is ’ead he could write a book; he’s been at it for the last six months. Look ’ere.”
She spread the neat pile of manuscript broadcast over the desk, and took a sheet at haphazard. It was all covered with illegible hopeless scribblings; only here and there it was possible to recognize a word.
“Why, nobody could read it, if they wanted to.”
“It’s all like that. He thought it was beautiful. I used to ’ear him jabbering to himself about it, dreadful nonsense it was he used to talk. I did my best to tongue him out of it, but it wasn’t any good.”
“He must have been a bit dotty. He’s left you everything.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to see about the funeral.”
“There’ll be the inquest and all that first.”
“You’ve got evidence to show he took the stuff.”
“Yes, to be sure I have. The doctor told him he would be certain to do for himself, and he was found two or three times quite silly in the streets. They had to drag him away from a house in Halden Road. He was carrying on dreadful, shaking at the gaite, and calling out it was ’is ’ome and they wouldn’t let him in. I heard Dr. Manning myself tell ’im in this very room that he’d kill ’imself one of these days. Joe! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself. I declare you’re quite rude, and it’s almost Sunday too. Bring the light over here, can’t you?”