CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND
THE EMPTY ROOM
The constable tumbled rather than walked into the room. His hands and clothes were begrimed and black; his hat was crushed and shapeless; his fat, rosy cheeks were streaked with irregular patterns where his fingers had rubbed.
Susan Gollop stood with arms akimbo, grimly eyeing the returned wanderer.
“Well, if you’re not a pretty object!” she said severely; but her lips were trembling a little. “There! Fetch a basin of water, Lucy, and the pummy stone, and there’s a dirty towel on the rack.”
Dick Gollop plumped heavily into a chair.
“I’m dead beat, missus,” he murmured. “Give us a drink.”
Martin handed him a mug, and he took a deep draught.
“What a Sunday!” he exclaimed. “Fire and brimstone! The everlasting fire! And the Lord Mayor’s just as silly as any common man. My throat’s as dry as a bone. Another drink, lad.”