“Not too strong,” replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough.
“You understand what that means, landlord!” said the stranger, drily.
The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steaming jorum, of which the first gulp brought the water into Mr. Bumble’s eyes.
“Now listen to me,” said the stranger, after closing the door and window. “I came down to this place to-day to find you out, and, by one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you, and don’t ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up that to begin with.”
As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companion carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard without; and when Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see that they were genuine, and put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on,—
“Carry your memory back—let me see—twelve years, last winter.”
“It’s a long time,” said Mr. Bumble. “Very good. I’ve done it.”
“The scene, the workhouse.”
“Good!”
“And the time, night.”