It was the custom of Thomas Dibble to take what he called “a little constitutional” after chapel, and before dinner—just half-an-hour’s stroll, whilst Mrs. Dibble changed her chapel-going satin, and dished up the dinner.
It was a rare thing for Mr. Paul Somerton to volunteer to accompany Mr. Dibble; but he did so on the Sunday in question, and, as they walked by the Thames, watching the steamers pass and repass with their loads of noisy pleasure-seekers, Paul asked Dibble a variety of puzzling questions about Mr. Richard Tallant, and his friend, Shuffleton Gibbs.
“Ise no spy, Mr. Somerton, and Ise not an owl, or a dormouse,” said Mr. Dibble, looking as knowing as he could at Paul.
“Certainly not, Dib,” said Paul; “certainly not; you know a thing or two.”
“Well, I dur say, and I knows nothing about the things you speaks of.”
“What, don’t you know who Mr. Gibbs is, and how he lives, and why he is a friend of the son’s and not of the father’s?” asked Paul.
“It bain’t my business to know,” said Mr. Dibble.
Paul Somerton pumped old Dibble all the way home, but to little or no purpose; and the porter’s dogged silence aroused Paul’s own curiosity about his sister’s inquiries.
“Does Mr. Richard attend much at the office? Who and what is Mr. Gibbs? Are they particular friends of Mr. Hammerton? Do they meet together often? And where?”
These were the chief questions which Miss Amy Somerton required her brother Paul to answer.