“Of course you did, sir; so did I; and well I remember it, though it’s forty years ago.”
“Mrs Brade, I told you I was busy. I thank you for your congratulations, and I gave you all your instructions yesterday, so pray what do you want?”
Mrs Brade, wife of the inn porter, lifted the corner of her apron to her mouth, and made a sound like the stifling of a laugh.
“I beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure, and of course it’s natural at such a time. I came because you sent word by the waiter that I was to—”
“Of course, yes: about ten. I’m so busy, I forgot,” cried Stratton hastily. “Look here, Mrs Brade, I want you to go over to the bank; it will be open by the time you get across. Cash this cheque for me; bring all notes—tens and fives.”
“A hundred and fifty pounds, sir?”
“Yes; take a hand bag with you. Don’t get robbed.”
“Oh, no, sir. I know too much of the ways of London town.”
“That’s right. Excuse my being hurried with you.”
“Of course, sir; I know well what your feelings must be. (Sniff, sniff.) Why, you can smell Mr Brettison a-smoking his ubble-bubble with that strange tobacco right in here.”