“I shall be all right,” said Thyme shortly.
In the shop doorway the young tobacconist was taking the evening air. He greeted them with his polite but constitutionally leering smile.
“Good-evening, mith,” he said; “nithe evening!”
“He's rather an awful little man,” the grey girl said when they had achieved the crossing of the street; “but he's got quite a nice sense of humour.”
“Ah!” said Thyme.
They had turned into a by-street, and stopped before a house which had obviously seen better days. Its windows were cracked, its doors unpainted, and down in the basement could be seen a pile of rags, an evil-looking man seated by it, and a blazing fire. Thyme felt a little gulping sensation. There was a putrid scent as of burning refuse. She looked at her companion. The grey girl was consulting her notebook, with a faint smile on her lips. And in Thyme's heart rose a feeling almost of hatred for this girl, who was so business-like in the presence of such sights and scents.
The door was opened by a young red-faced woman, who looked as if she had been asleep.
The grey girl screwed up her shining eyes. “Oh, do you mind if we come in a minute?” she said. “It would be so good of you. We're making a report.”
“There's nothing to report here,” the young woman answered. But the grey girl had slipped as gently past as though she had been the very spirit of adventure.
“Of course, I see that, but just as a matter of form, you know.”