The July moon had thrown a silver veil over the grimness of Rolls Court when, five hours later, Mr. Clodd’s nailed boots echoed again upon its uneven pavement; but Mr. Clodd had no eye for moon or stars or such-like; always he had things more important to think of.
“Seen the old ’umbug?” asked Mrs. Postwhistle, who was partial to the air, leading the way into the parlour.
“First and foremost commenced,” Mr. Clodd, as he laid aside his hat, “it is quite understood that you really do want to get rid of him? What’s that?” demanded Mr. Clodd, a heavy thud upon the floor above having caused him to start out of his chair.
“’E came in an hour after you’d gone,” explained Mrs. Postwhistle, “bringing with him a curtain pole as ’e’d picked up for a shilling in Clare Market. ’E’s rested one end upon the mantelpiece and tied the other to the back of the easy-chair—’is idea is to twine ’imself round it and go to sleep upon it. Yes, you’ve got it quite right without a single blunder. I do want to get rid of ’im.”
“Then,” said Mr. Clodd, reseating himself, “it can be done.”
“Thank God for that!” was Mrs. Postwhistle’s pious ejaculation.
“It is just as I thought,” continued Mr. Clodd. “The old innocent—he’s Gladman’s brother-in-law, by the way—has got a small annuity. I couldn’t get the actual figure, but I guess it’s about sufficient to pay for his keep and leave old Gladman, who is running him, a very decent profit. They don’t want to send him to an asylum. They can’t say he’s a pauper, and to put him into a private establishment would swallow up, most likely, the whole of his income. On the other hand, they don’t want the bother of looking after him themselves. I talked pretty straight to the old man—let him see I understood the business; and—well, to cut a long story short, I’m willing to take on the job, provided you really want to have done with it, and Gladman is willing in that case to let you off your contract.”
Mrs. Postwhistle went to the cupboard to get Mr. Clodd a drink. Another thud upon the floor above—one suggestive of exceptional velocity—arrived at the precise moment when Mrs. Postwhistle, the tumbler level with her eye, was in the act of measuring.
“I call this making a disturbance,” said Mrs. Postwhistle, regarding the broken fragments.
“It’s only for another night,” comforted her Mr. Clodd. “I’ll take him away some time to-morrow. Meanwhile, if I were you, I should spread a mattress underneath that perch of his before I went to bed. I should like him handed over to me in reasonable repair.”