"And you call yourself a workingman," she exclaimed.
"I am not aware that I have done so."
"So my husband told me last night; you are the man who called last night, and went to seek my husband at the Britannia. Don't deny it."
"I have not the least intention of doing so. You gave me the information where to see him."
"So I did, and he said you pretended to be a workingman. Now, a workingman wouldn't say, 'it is I'; he'd say 'it's me.' I have been brought pretty low, but I had fair schooling when I was young, and I know a workingman from a gentleman."
"Well," I observed, "say that I am a gentleman; is that anything against me?"
"It is everything against you. I heard from my husband all that passed between you--as nearly as he could remember, in the state he was. When he's in his cups his tongue runs too free, and you gave him rope enough. Perhaps you're not a gentleman, after all. What do you say to detective?"
"I am not a detective," I answered, with, I confess, a rather guilty feeling, for if I was not doing the work of a detective, what else was I doing? "For what reason on earth should a detective be running after your husband?"
"An admission!" she cried, and I saw that I had to do with a sharp woman. "Then you are running after him." She folded her arms defiantly. "Now, what for?"
I smiled rather feebly as I said, "You would not believe me if I told you I have come to put something in his way."