"One of my clients," he remarked.
Aaron Rodd was puzzled. He had once paid a visit to the river-side public-house over which Jacob Potts presided, and he found it hard to associate Cresswell in any way with the atmosphere there. Mr. Jacob Potts had pressed a thick forefinger to his lips.
"Mum's the word, guv'nor," he declared reassuringly. "Don't you worry."
The poet picked up his hat.
"From this gentleman," he asserted grandiloquently, "I have no secrets. To be frank with you, it was he and another friend who are responsible for those incidents in my career with which you have been professionally connected."
Mr. Jacob Potts glanced at him admiringly.
"That's 'ow 'e talks down at Wapping. Ain't it wonderful!" he observed.
Stephen Cresswell edged towards the door.
"When you have finished with our friend here," he said, addressing Aaron, "come across to the Milan. I have a proposition to make anent the opening of my banking account. It is connected with food and drink. Au revoir! Farewell, my river-side Goliath," he added, waving his hand to Jacob Potts. "Remember, our little bargain still goes."
Mr. Potts' large face was convulsed into humorous wrinkles.