“Who?”
“Bert Saunders. The man you were living with in Little Quondam Street.”
“Oh, him! Oh, I had to get rid of him double quick. What? Yes, when it came to asking me to go to Paris with a fighting fellow. Only fancy the cheek of it! It would help him, he said, with his business. Dirty Ecnop! I soon shoved him down the Apples-and-pears.”
“I haven’t understood a word of that last sentence,” said Michael.
“Don’t you know back-slang and rhyming-slang? Oh, it’s grand! Here, I forgot, there’s something I wanted to tell you. Do you remember you was in here with a fellow who you said his name was Burns?”
“Barnes, you mean, I expect. Yes, he’s supposed to be meeting me here to-night, as a matter of fact.”
“Well, you be careful of him. He’ll get you into trouble.”
Michael looked incredulous.
“It’s true as I sit here,” said Daisy earnestly. “Come over in the corner and let’s have our drink there. I can’t talk here with that blue-nosed —— behind me, squinting at us across his lager.” She looked round indignantly at the man in question.
They moved across to one of the alcoves, and Daisy leaned over and spoke quietly and rather tensely, so differently from the usual rollick of her voice that Michael began to feel a presentiment of dread.