“That's not the worst,” I confided to him. “What do you think I've done?”
“Killed a policeman?” suggested Minikin.
“Got myself engaged.”
“No one like you quiet fellows for going it when you do begin,” commented Minikin. “Nice girl?”
“I don't know,” I answered. “I only know I don't want her. How can I get out of it?”
Minikin removed his left eye and commenced to polish it upon his handkerchief, a habit he had when in doubt. From looking into it he appeared to derive inspiration.
“Take-her-own-part sort of a girl?”
I intimated that he had diagnosed Miss Rosina Sellars correctly.
“Know how much you're earning?”
“She knows I live up here in this attic and do my own cooking,” I answered.