“Yes, you said that before, and you are seventy-seven years of age. Neither statement interests us. We want Mr. Thoyne.”
“Hallo! hallo!” cried suddenly a new voice. “Silas, who are these gentlemen? Ha! Mr. Pepster, I did not recognise you. Have you come to take my house?”
“No, Mr. Bannister,” Pepster replied slowly. “I haven’t come to take any house.”
He paused, a little irresolute, knowing that Mr. Bannister was a different proposition from old Silas Ballaker and that he would have to be a little more careful.
“May I ask what you are doing here?” Pepster went on.
“Now is that a kindly personal inquiry from a friend or is it asked in an official capacity?”
Mr. Bannister was a little fat man, with two small, keen eyes peering out of a sallow, bearded face.
“Oh, purely personal,” Pepster replied, a little impatiently. “We came to see Mr. Thoyne. I was merely surprised to see you where we expected—someone else.”
“Oh, Thoyne, yes, he was my tenant. But he has gone. Gave me notice some days ago, paid me up and cleared out. A good tenant, very good. I was sorry to lose him—yes. He said he was going back to America and he left this morning. I sent old Silas here as caretaker. Good old chap, Silas, but—”
He tapped his head significantly with the forefinger of his right hand. The old man did not see the movement but he caught the words.