“Good evening, Mr. Darling,” said Mr. Mergleson.
Mr. Darling ceased rather slowly to wonder and turned to his friend. “Good evening, Mr. Mergleson,” he said. “I don’t quite like the look of these here peaches, blowed if I do.”
Mr. Mergleson glanced at the peaches, and then came to the matter that was nearest his heart.
“You ’aven’t I suppose seen anything of your stepson these last two days, Mr. Darling?”
“Naturally not,” said Mr. Darling, putting his head on one side and regarding his interlocutor. “Naturally not,—I’ve left that to you, Mr. Mergleson.”
“Well, that’s what’s awkward,” said Mr. Mergleson, and then, with a forced easiness, “You see, I ain’t seen ’im either.”
“No!”
“No. I lost sight of ’im—” Mr. Mergleson appeared to reflect—“late on Sattiday night.”
“’Ow’s that, Mr. Mergleson?”
Mr. Mergleson considered the difficulties of lucid explanation. “We missed ’im,” said Mr. Mergleson simply, regarding the well-weeded garden path with a calculating expression and then lifting his eyes to Mr. Darling’s with an air of great candour. “And we continue to miss him.”