Meanwhile Learmont, full of dark thoughts, proceeded slowly down the staircase until he reached the door opening into the passage, which, although wide open when he passed through, was now closed; and on the outer side was the back of mine host himself, who was supporting his corporeal substance against it, while, with many nourishes and amplifications of his arm, he detailed to some of his gossipping neighbours how grievously he had been cheated, by a tall pale man in a cloak, out of a flagon of the best wine the Chequers could afford.
“My masters,” he said, “the villain had an odd look, you will understand, but not a poor look, for a ring sparkled on his finger that was worth many pounds, as sure as I’m a sinner, and we are all sinners.”
“Ah, that’s true as regards us all being sinners,” said one. “Now there’s Mr. Sniffler, the godly minister, who preached at Paul’s—”
“Hear me out—hear me out,” cried the landlord, to whom the pleasure of telling the story was almost an indemnification for his loss. “As I was a saying, I was a standing, with my back against the cupboard in my bar, as I might stand now, when all of a sudden comes—”
At this moment Learmont gave the door so vigorous a push that the landlord fell forward on to his hands and knees, with a cry of wrath, as he supposed some one of his household was the cause of this malapropos accident.
“Do you block up your doors,” said Learmont, haughtily, “and hinder your guests from going forth at their own pleasure?”
“Well, I never!” cried the landlord, scrambling to his feet. “You—you haven’t paid me for my wine; you know you have not.”
Learmont took from his pocket a piece of silver, and threw it on the floor; then, drawing his cloak tightly round him, he stalked from the house without a word.
“Well now, neighbours,” said the landlord, “did you ever see the like of that? That’s the very man who went away without paying me for my wine.”
“Are you quite sure he hasn’t been up stairs and stolen something?” suggested one.