"Is there anything up? Have you heard anything particular about old Ben?"
Stack bent forward. "Yes, I've heard something, and I'm making inquiries."
"How did you hear it?"
Stack drew his chair a little closer. "I've been up at Chalk Farm, the 'Yarborough Arms'; you know, where the 'buses stop. Bob Barrett does a deal of business up there. He pays the landlord's rent for the use of the bar—Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays is his days. Charley Grove bets there Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, but it is Bob that does the biggest part of the business. They say he's taken as much as twenty pounds in a morning. You know Bob, a great big man, eighteen stun if he's an ounce. He's a warm 'un, can put it on thick."
"I know him; he do tell fine stories about the girls; he has the pick of the neighbourhood, wears a low hat, no higher than that, with a big brim. I know him. I've heard that he 'as moved up that way. Used at one time to keep a tobacconist's shop in Great Portland Street."
"That's him," said Stack. "I thought you'd heard of him."
"There ain't many about that I've not heard of. Not that I likes the man much. There was a girl I knew—she wouldn't hear his name mentioned. But he lays fair prices, and does, I believe, a big trade."
"'As a nice 'ome at Brixton, keeps a trap; his wife as pretty a woman as you could wish to lay eyes on. I've seen her with him at Kempton."
"You was up there this morning?"
"Yes."