“Rum.”
“Very good, let it be rum.” He called the waiter, and a rum was served.
“You’re not drinking to-day, John,” Wilfred remarked, taking a long pull at the rum and looking more amiable.
“No, I’m quite off spirits,” John replied—“at least, spirits of that kind.”
“Spirits of that kind!” Wilfred sniggered. “Why, whatever other kind of spirits are there? What a mysterious fellow you are, John.”
“Am I?” John laughed. “Perhaps I’ve reason to be. I live in a big house, all alone, in Red Lion Square.”
“New houses, aren’t they?” Wilfred commented. “And big rents?”
John nodded, the same nod answering apparently both questions.
“But you haven’t told me yet,” Wilfred went on, “how you knew Jenny was dead.”
“I’ve seen her,” John said very quietly. “She comes to me regularly.”