“You may shake your head at me, Mr Guest,” she said, “and it’s our secret, for not a word shall ever leave my lips, but let me ask you, is it in the behaviour of a gentleman as has got all his change—”
“Got all his—Oh, I see, you mean his senses.”
“Why, of course, sir, to keep his rooms shut up as he does, and never a duster or a brush put inside the door.”
“He is afraid of his specimens being disturbed, Mrs Brade.”
“Oh, dear, no, sir. It never was his way. I’d got used to his manners and customs—we understood each other, and if I lifted up a bottle or a specimen, whether it was a bird or only a bone, down it went in the same place again, so exact that you couldn’t tell it had been moved.”
“But Mr Brettison does the same, Mrs Brade.”
“Him, sir?” said the woman contemptuously; “that’s different. One knows he’s a little bit queer. It’s nothing new for him to be away months together, and then come back loaded with rubbidge.”
“When did you say Mr Stratton came here last?”
“Four days ago, sir, and I went after him, and begged and prayed of him, with a pail and broom in my hand, to let me do him up, but he only pynted downward like a man in a play; and there’s his place going to rack and ruin.”
“Next time he comes, Mrs Brade,” said Guest, slipping a sovereign into her hand, “send your husband on to me directly and try and keep Mr Stratton till he comes back.”