The prize-fighter stepped quickly along the dark passage into the parlour, and while the somewhat sluggish Mrs Butt was closing the door she overheard her lodger exclaim—
“Ha! Jem Mace, this is good of you—very good of you—to come so promptly. Mrs Butt,” shouting at the parlour door, “another cup and plate for Mr Mace, and—and bring the ham!”
“The ’am!” repeated Mrs Butt softly to herself, as she gazed in perplexity round her little kitchen, “did ’e order a ’am?”
Unable to solve the riddle she gave it up and carried in the cup and saucer and plate.
“I beg your parding, sir, you mentioned a ’am,” she began, but stopped abruptly on seeing no one there but the prize-fighter standing before the fire in a free-and-easy manner with his hands in his breeches pockets.
The light of the street-lamps had very imperfectly revealed the person of Jem Mace. Now that Mrs Butt saw him slouching in all his native hideousness against her mantelpiece in the full blaze of a paraffin lamp, she inwardly congratulated herself that Mr Brooke was such a big strong man—almost a match, she thought, for Mace!
“I thought you said the gen’leman was in the parlour, Mrs Brute?” said Mace inquiringly.
“So ’e—was,” answered the perplexed lady, looking round the room; “didn’t I ’ear ’im a-shakin’ ’ands wi’ you, an’ a-shoutin’ for ’am?”
“Well, Mrs Brute, I dun know what you ’eard; all I know is that I’ve not seed ’im yet.”
“’E must be in the bedroom,” said Mrs Butt, with a dazed look.