“No,” said Blunt. “Off with you and tumble into bed.”
Chapter Eighteen.
“Not a bit Dead.”
“What will you do about poor Wing?” said Stan the morning after his return, when he was out on the wharf, all the better for bed, bath, and breakfast.
“Wait,” said Blunt, frowning.
“Wait? In such an emergency, with the poor fellow regularly murdered?”
“We don’t know that yet, youngster,” said the manager. “You did not see him murdered, and you did not see his body.”
“No; but—”