“Hah!” he said aloud, after a pause, “how it would have read in the paper: ‘An inquest was held at Wimble’s Museum, Danmouth’—eh? I beg your pardon, Mr Brime, sir; I didn’t hear you come up. Shave, sir? Certainly, sir. Come in.”
Wimble’s heart beat high as he thought of the chance. His customers had pumped him dry, and gone away; and here, by a tremendous stroke of luck, was the commencement of a perfect spring of information to refill his well right to the brim.
Reuben Brime, who looked worried and haggard, entered the museum, took his place in the Windsor arm-chair, was duly covered with the print cloth, after removing collar and tie, and laid his head back in the rest.
“Why, you look fagged out, Mr Brime, sir,” said Wimble, quietly walking to the door, closing it, and slipping the bolt.
The gardener from the Fort was nervous and agitated. Death in the house—sudden death—had unhinged him. His master might have been poisoned, either by his own hand or by that of an enemy. That would be murder. He was bound, as it were, for the sacrifice; there were a dozen razors at hand; the barber’s aspect was suspicious, and he had closed the door. What did it mean?
“I say,” cried the gardener, sitting bolt upright, “what did you do that for?”
“Do what, Mr Brime? Fasten the door? I’ll tell you. I’ve been that worked this day that I haven’t had time for a decent meal, and I won’t shave another chin. That’s what I mean.”
“Oh!” said Brime, calming down a little.
“I don’t hold with working oneself to death, sir. Do you?”
“No; certainly not,” said the gardener, with divers memories of idle pipes in the tool-house when “Master” had gone in the quarry.