“We’ll be on the move again soon, Mr. Mole.”
“I shall be glad of that.”
“What we want to know, what I want to know and what Mr. Copas wants to know is this. What are you going to do about it?”
“I . . . I suppose I shall go with you.”
“You know what I mean, Mr. Mole. Some folk ain’t particular. I am. And Mr. Copas is very careful about what happens in his theater. If it can’t be legitimate it can’t be and there’s nothing more to be said. . . . Now, Mr. Mole, what are you going to do?”
“My good woman! I haven’t the least idea what you are talking about. I have enjoyed my stay with you. I have found it very instructive and profitable and I propose to——”
“It’s Matilda, Mr. Mole. What’s done is done. We’re not saying anything about that. Some says it’s a curse and some says it’s the only thing worth living for. Matilda’s my own husband’s niece and I’ve got to see her properly done by whether you’re offended with a little plain speaking or not, Mr. Mole.”
She had now traced a very passable spider’s web in mustard on the plate.
“If you need to be told, I must tell you, Mr. Mole. Matilda’s in the way.”
No definite idea came to Mr. Mole, but a funny little throb and trickle began at the base of his spine. He dabbed his cigar down into half a glass of beer that Mr. Copas had left.