“Trouble, sir! When I heard of it this morning, you might have knocked me down with a feather.”
“Hah! very awful really, sir,” said Wimble, beginning to lather again, and this time in so thoughtful a manner that the gardener’s mouth disappeared in the soapy foam, and the desire for more information seemed to have gone.
“Was Chris Lisle up at the Fort last night? Was our suspicions unjust, then?”
“Then, it must be all on her side,” thought Wimble, beginning to strop his razor again fiercely, and he operated directly after with so much savage energy, that the gardener’s hands clutched the sides of the chair, and he held on, with the perspiration oozing out upon his forehead, and causing a tickling sensation around the roots of his hair.
“Find it hot, Mr Brime, sir?” said the barber, as he gave a few finishing touches to his patient’s chin.
“Very,” said the gardener, with a sigh of relief, as the razor was wiped and thrown down, and a cool, wet sponge removed the last traces of the soap; “you went over me so quick, I was afraid of an accident.”
“No fear, sir. When a man’s shaved a hundred thousand people, he isn’t likely to make a mistake. Thank you, sir; and I hope you will get everything settled all right up yonder. When’s the funeral?”
“Don’t know yet, sir. When the doctors and coroners have done, I suppose.”
“Hum!” said Wimble to himself, as he ran over the gardener’s words. “Then, perhaps I have been wrong about him, but I can’t be about her. She wouldn’t have held me off all this time if she hadn’t had thoughts elsewhere.”
He was standing at the door as he spoke, probably meaning to receive more customers after all, for he did not slip the bolt.