"And tell the truth!" put in Mrs. Warrender sharply.
"Clara Maria!" Cicero was about to break forth in furious speech, but he restrained himself. "Hodie mihi eras tibi!" said Mr. Gramp, with a strange look at Alan--"if you understand Latin."
"I think I am able to follow you, my friend. You mean 'To-day to me, to-morrow to thee,' which would be all right if it was I who quoted the saying. But this time it is not your day, and as to your to-morrow, it may never come."
"We shall see about that," said Cicero savagely and pointedly.
Alan felt an unpleasant thrill run through him, for the man's look was evil beyond telling. But he betrayed nothing of this, and signed to Gramp to continue.
Quite understanding the position, Cicero reverted to his grand theatrical manner. He rose from his chair, rested one hand on the back of it, and thrust the other into his breast. As from a rostrum he delivered his speech, and dwelt upon his own words with the gusto of a modern Micawber.
"Mr. Thorold and Clara Maria," he began in deep tones, "a few days ago circumstances connected with money turned me weary and hungry from the seaport of Southampton. I went--let us be plain--I went on the tramp, and in the course of my peregrinations I drew near Heathton, a salubrious village, notorious at the present moment for the crimes which have been committed there. I spun a coin, my only sixpence, to decide if an intrusion into that village would bring me good or evil fortune. The coin said good, so to Heathton I went. As I shall shortly pocket fifty quid--a vulgar term, but eloquent, Clara Maria, so don't frown--I dare not say that my only sixpence told me a lie. That sixpence bought me a meal in the Heathton public-house. Where is that meal or sixpence now? Eheu! Fuit Ilium."
"Go on," said Alan curtly, for the orator paused.
"At the Good Samaritan I heard much about Mr. Marlow and the funeral, and learned a few facts which were of use to me afterwards."
"When you thrust yourself into the kitchen at the Moat House, I presume?"