“Ointment for two,” said Pomeroy, searching his pockets, “complete with bluebottle. Listen. The deceased—God bless him—has left me a most desirable residence—cesspool and all. It’s a peach of a place, overlookin’ the Bay of Biscay. What’s torn it up——”
“I know,” said Forsyth.
Pomeroy stared.
“Know?” he said. “But——”
“Miss Seneschal’s upstairs.”
Pomeroy started. Then he picked up his hat and was stepping a-tiptoe to the door.
“Here,” said Forsyth, detaining him, “I’ve—I’ve persuaded her to see you.”
“Not on your life,” said Pomeroy. “I—I’m rather frail this morning.”
“Will you renounce?”
“What, an’ let her have the lot? Not likely.”