He checked himself sharply. For a few moments he stood tapping his fingers on the counter and eyeing Mr. Clark.
“What’s Poskett going to do when he finds out?” he asked.
“Send ’im about ’is business pretty sharp!”
“Just the thing!” exclaimed the landlord.
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“Look here,” went on the other, in some excitement, “I don’t mind admitting to you that I’ve got more than half a mind to have a try after Miss Poskett myself. I wondered why she wouldn’t have anything to say to me until, a few days ago, I happened to see her with the chap she fancies. If Poskett got rid of him—”
“Hexactly, sir!” concurred Mr. Clark. “That ’ud be your chance, wouldn’t it?”
“It would!”
“Then tell me ’oo ’e is, and—”
“No; if Miss Poskett got to hear I was mixed up in it— But I’ll tell you what I will do! Here, come to the window! See that cottage across the harbour—the one with the figurehead in the garden? Well, he lodges there. His name is Jones—William Jones. Here, come back!” cried the landlord, forcefully detaining Mr. Clark. “Don’t you understand that you’ve got to catch ’em together first? Now, he hasn’t been out lately, because he hasn’t been very well. But if you were to watch that cottage—”