“Ay, I shall!”
The innuendo in the landlady’s tone was so plain that her husband, who had entered while she was rinsing the noggin in which she had measured the gin, chuckled audibly. She turned an awful stare on him, and he collapsed. The Bow Street runner was less amenable to discipline.
“You sent the lad, Tom?” he asked.
The landlord nodded, with an apprehensive eye on his wife.
“He should be back”—Mr. Bishop consulted a huge silver watch—“by eleven.”
“Ay, sure.”
“Where has he gone?” Mrs. Gilson asked, with an ominous face.
She seldom interfered in stable matters; but if she chose, it was understood that no department was outside her survey.
“Only to Kendal with a message for me,” Bishop answered.
“At this time of the night?”