WILLIAM PEGGE
The detective instinct which was Blick’s second nature rose, strong and eager, when he heard this announcement. He, too, glanced at Grimsdale in knowing fashion.
“Something to tell?” he suggested.
“Didn’t say as much to me,” answered the landlord, “but I should say so. Came hanging round our side-door till he got a sight of me, and then asked if you were in, and if he could see you, all to yourself—didn’t want anybody else to know.”
“Bring him in—and tell him nobody will know anything whatever about it,” commanded Blick. “Strictly private, eh?”
Grimsdale glanced at the window, and crossing over to it, drew its curtains. He left the room—to return a minute later with a young man in whipcord clothes and smart Newmarket gaiters; a shrewd-eyed, keen-faced fellow who regarded the detective pretty much as he might have regarded a slippery fox just breaking cover.
“William Pegge, Mr. Blick,” said Grimsdale.
Blick nodded affably to his shy and watchful visitor, and pointed to a chair close to his own by the cheery fire.
“Good evening, Pegge,” he said. “Sit down—will you have a drink?”
Pegge slid into the easy chair, put his hat on the ground, and grinned sheepishly.