"I'll be careful," H.M. promised. Behind smoke and spectacles, his eyes had taken on a faraway look; "I don't want to be chucked out of here. I'm always being chucked out of places, though bum me if I can think why. This is a fine old house, this is. Antiques, and real antiques."
"Oh, yes!" cried Mrs. Puckston in one gush. "Arthur always tries to—"
The doors of the Dragon's Rest, unlike those of most pubs, were solid and close-fitting. Little could be heard through them unless you bent close. But now, from beyond the closed door to the far bar-parlour, arose a sudden babble of angry voices, all clamouring together. One voice, a man's, clove through the tumult.
"I can't do it, I tell you! What’s more, I won't!"
H.M. abruptly snatched the cigar out of his mouth.
"That sounded like young Drake." His own big voice boomed out. "Does anybody know who's there with him?"
It was the dark-haired and well-spoken Enid who answered.
"Lady Jennifer, sir. And Mr. Richard Fleet And a lady from Fleet House; I don't, know her. And Dr. Laurier."
"So!" grunted H.M., and surged to his feet "That's a combination I don't like." And, with his white linen suit rucked up and the gold watch-chain swinging across his corporation, he lumbered towards the door and opened it
The heat of strained feelings was as palpable in the other room as its atmosphere of beer and old stone. But except for Martin Drake, it was now empty. Martin stood by the stove, his dark eyebrows drawn together and the green eyes enraged. H.M., after giving him a dismal look, lumbered over to peer out of the open door into the road.