“Have you a nice chicken?” he inquired.
Yes, Mr. Tomlin had a veritable spring chicken in the larder at that moment.
“And do you think your cook could provide a tourne-dos?”
“A what-a, sir?” wheezed Tomlin.
The visitor explained. He liked variety, he said. Half the chicken might be deviled for breakfast. The two dishes, with plain boiled potatoes and French beans, would suit him admirably. He was sorry he dared not try Tomlin’s excellent claret, but a dominating doctor had put him on the water-cart. In effect, Mr. Franklin impressed the landlord as a man of taste and ample means.
Peters had gobbled his chop before Franklin entered the dining-room, but they met later in the snug, where Elkin was being chaffed by Hobbs anent his carryin’s on in Knoleworth the previous night.
Siddle came in, but the chatter was not so free as when the habitués had the place to themselves.
Now, Peters had marked the gathering as one that suited his purpose exactly, so he gave the conversation the right twist.
“I suppose you local gentlemen have been greatly disturbed by this sensational murder?” he said.
Hobbs took refuge in a glass of beer. Siddle gazed contemplatively at his neat boots. Tomlin meant to say something; Elkin, eying the stranger, and summing him up as a detective, answered brusquely: