“If you talked all night, sir, you couldn’t say a truer word than that. Mr Trevithick, sir, very big man, lawyer.”
“Yes; they call him Jumbo our way.”
Kck!
Brime burst out into a monosyllabic half laugh, and then stopped short as Wimble was drawing back into his den to let them pass.
“Here, Mr Wimble, sir, this gent wants to ask something about Mrs Sarson.”
“Eh! Yes!” said the barber sharply; and the suspicious look which had been gathering of late in his face grew more intense. “Step in, sir, pray,” he added eagerly.
“Oh, that’s not worth while now,” said the stranger, passing his hand over his chin. “Give you a look in to-morrow. My friend here thought you could tell me about Mrs Sarson’s lodgings.”
“Yes,” said Brime; “and—of course, this gent wants to go fishing, and Mr Lisle’s always fishing.”
“Mr Lisle?” said the stranger. “Christopher Lisle?”
“That’s the man, sir,” said the barber sharply. “You know anything about him, sir?”