"His name is Weekes," said Brother Copas, answering the Master's puzzled look. "He was a master-printer in his time, an able fellow, but addicted to drink and improvident. His downfall involved that of Brother Warboise's stationery business, and Brother Warboise has never forgiven him."
"Dear, dear!" Master Blanchminster passed a hand over his brow. "But if that's so, I don't see—"
"It's a curious story," said Brother Copas, smiling.
"It's one you have no right to meddle with, any way," growled Brother Warboise; "and, what's more, you can't know anything about it."
"It came to me through the child Corona," pursued Brother Copas imperturbably. "You took her to Weekes's house to tea one afternoon, and she had it from Weekes's wife. It's astonishing how these women will talk."
"I've known some men too, for that matter—"
"It's useless for you to keep interrupting. The Master has asked for information, and I am going to tell him the story—that is, sir, if you can spare a few minutes to hear it."
"You are sure it will take but a few minutes?" asked Master Blanchminster doubtfully.
"Eh, Master?" Brother Copas laughed. "Did you, too, find me somewhat prolix this afternoon?"
"Well, you shall tell me the story. But since it is not good for us to be standing here among the river damps, I suggest that you turn back with me towards St. Hospital, and where the path widens so that we can walk three abreast you shall begin."