They said good-night and parted, the King riding on to the office on the beach, and Dr Pryce returning to Sir John in the club.
“How goes it?” asked Pryce.
“Mast is sober now, but he’s pretty shaky. It seems that his bit of a row with Bassett is disturbing him, and he’s been weeping. I say, Pryce, our men are simply going to pap.”
“Everything else ready for the burial?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll give Mast one stiff peg to steady him, and we’ll start away. By the way, it was as I thought, it was the King himself who came to the gate.”
“Then you spoke about the Snowflake?”
“Of course. He’ll see Lechworthy about it.”
“Do you think he smells a rat?”
“There are some men who smell rats and then shout about it, and they don’t generally make fortunes as rat-catchers. Smith’s not that sort.”