“And likes plenty of it, eh?”
“Oh, dear no, sir. It’s only eleven yet,” replied Mrs Brade, glancing at a sallow-faced Dutch clock on the wall. “He isn’t doo till twelve. You forget, sir, as he’s up pretty well all night to let in gents at all hours.”
“Loose fish?”
“Some of ’em, sir—if you means gents as don’t behave themselves and comes home smelling of spirits horrid. But most of ’em’s from Fleet Street, sir, from the noosepapers, as keeps ’em till two and three and four o’clock, and sometimes later.”
“Of course, of course, Mrs Brade,” said Guest, rising. “We must have our morning papers.”
“Yes, sir, and our bread and rolls; not that I wish you to think we’ve anyone in the inn as is a baker.”
“I did not think so, Mrs Brade; but I’m in a hurry.”
“And I won’t detain you, sir. But, of course, you were going in to see poor Mr Stratton, sir.”
“Yes; what of that,” said Guest sharply.
“I wanted to speak to you, sir, about him very serious, sir. Only yesterday, sir—”