“Because he’s an old molly-coddle,” snapped the horse-dealer. “Thinks everyone is like himself, a regular slow-coach.”
Tomlin closed the door into the passage, closed it for the first time in living memory, whereat Furneaux, on the landing above, grinned sardonically, and ran downstairs.
“Wot’s this about them amatoor clo’es?” he inquired portentously. “Oo ’as the key of that box?”
“I have,” said Elkin. “I locked it after the last performance, and, unless you’ve been up to any monkey tricks, Tomlin, the duds are there yet.”
“You’re bitin’ me ’ead off all the mornin’, Fred,” protested the aggrieved landlord. “Fust, the gin was wrong, an’ now I’m supposed to ’ave rummidged yur box. Wot for?”
Furneaux popped in.
“My bill ready?” he squeaked.
“No, sir. The train—”
“Leaves at two, but I’m driving to Knoleworth with Superintendent Fowler.”
The door closed behind him. Tomlin shook his head.