The Post Office was a “general” shop that sold everything from pins to Postal Orders.
“See that?” murmured Anthony, as we entered, heralded by the loud clanging of the shop bell on the door. He pointed to the telephone call-box. “I hoped that the ’phone would be in here.”
Mrs. Hogarth bustled out.
He nudged me in the ribs. “Introduce yourself—tell her who you are.”
“Good-afternoon, Mrs. Hogarth,” I cried with an air. “How’s the rheumatism?”
“Why, it’s Mr. Cunningham from the Manor. Good-afternoon, sir. The rheumatics? ... oh, not so bad, sir, considering my age and all that ... this is a terrible thing I hear, sir, what’s happened up at the Manor!”
“Yes, Mrs. Hogarth,” I replied. “It is! This is Mr. Bathurst, a very intimate friend of Sir Charles and her Ladyship——”
Mrs. Hogarth curtsied to the best of her ability—“Pleased to meet you, sir——”
“And they would be glad,” I continued, “if you would give him any information for which he may ask you.”
“Only too pleased, Mr. Cunningham.”