"Miser! miser!" chanted the boy, leering across the lane at the old creature, who shook his fist in impotent rage. "Golly, what clothes. Say, mister"--this was to Derrick--"if I come across to deliver the meat, will you stop the old cove from pitching into me?"
"I'll bash your head, you imp," yelled Webb, quivering with rage.
"Leave him alone," said Derrick good-humouredly. "Boys will be boys. Now then, young shaver, come along!"
But the boy declined. He darted across the road, thrust a chop into the inspector's hand, and darted back. "You give it to Mrs. Brand, governor," said the boy, grinning; "the old cove's got his bleary eye on yours truly."
"Beast of a boy," said Webb, and entering the gate he hobbled up to the door.
Derrick lingered behind, and produced a shilling. "See here, boy," he remarked persuasively, "do you deliver meat to Mrs. Brand every day?"
"Every second day," said the boy advancing, lured by the shilling.
"Has the meat been taken in as usual?"
"No, it ain't. Not for over a week. Nearly a fortnight, you might say. I brings them though--the chops, I mean--and puts them in the meat-safe at the back of the house. There's lots there, but she ain't bin home to eat them."
"When did you last see her?"