“You need not be afraid to speak, Mr Wimble,” said Trevithick looking very serious but feeling amused, “no one can hear.”
“Sure, sir?”
“Quite.”
“Because it’s horribly private, sir.”
“Indeed! What is it? Want to borrow a little cash?”
“Me, sir?” cried the barber jumping up indignantly. “No, sir; I’ve got my little bit saved up and safely invested at five per cent.”
“I beg your pardon, and congratulate you. Then what is it?”
Wimble went on tiptoe to the entrance, opened the door, peeped out, and, after closing it, came stealthily back close to the table, upon which he rested his hand, bent forward till his face came within a foot of the lawyer’s, and gazed at him wildly.
“Well, Mr Wimble, what is it?” said Trevithick at last, for his visitor was silent.
“It’s murder, sir,” whispered the barber.