“And a fine looking mother, too,” went on Tokely, feeling that it was more uphill work than he had anticipated. “You, sir”—he turned to the man with the newspaper—“ought to be proud of such a wife and daughter.” This at a venture, for he knew nothing of the relationship they bore to each other.
“W’en I fust drawed near to Betty—t’ other side the earth—there was a matter of nine men—one on ’em nigh on to eighty—a makin’ eyes at ’er, an’ even goin’ so far as to sleep on ’er doorstep. I polished off as many as I could get at, and spoke words of kind advice (as was throwed away on ’im) to the old ’un—an’ drove ’er nigh a ’underd mile to see a parson. An’ she were then as fine a woman—or finer—than any in them parts.” He laid down his newspaper—picked it up again—and finished his remarks. “W’ich so she are now.”
It was at this moment that Betty Siggs came in from the bar, with a little tray, on which stood some glasses and a jug of water; but she no sooner entered the room, than she stopped dead—uttered an exclamation—and let fall the tray and its contents.
Inspector Tokely had had his eyes fixed upon Mr. Siggs, so that he almost faced her as she came in; yet he could have sworn that, in the half glance he had of her, she had been looking straight over his head. Turning swiftly—so soon at least as he had got out of the way of the flowing liquids—he saw that, at the spot to which her eyes had been directed, was a window, partly shrouded by a curtain. Looking at Mrs. Siggs again, however, he came reluctantly to the conclusion that he must have been mistaken; for that excellent woman, with much laughter at her own carelessness, was picking up the glasses, and rearranging them on the tray.
“There’s a butter-fingers for you!” she exclaimed. “Never knowed myself to do that before. It’s tryin’ to do too much at once; that’s wot it is. Howsever, it ain’t no use cryin’ over spilt milk—or spilt spirits; an’ I’m a keepin’ everybody waitin’ for their liquor.”
In a moment, she bustled out again, appearing to be in a much better temper than before—indeed, quite desirous of making herself pleasant to every one, and propitiating the guest as much as possible. On coming back, she was careful to a nicety about mixing his drink, and even suggested he should taste it, to be sure that it was to his liking, before she proceeded to mix the others. Yet there was about all her movements a certain fluttering anxiety which had not been there before.
“’Pon my word, Clara,” she exclaimed suddenly—“I never see sich a girl in all my days! Fancy lightin’ up the gas, an’ never drawin’ the curtain even; wot could you ’ave bin a thinkin’ about?”
She bustled across to the window, and pulled the curtain sharply across it; yet seemed to look out of it for a moment, too, the Inspector thought, before doing so. She came back to her seat—a seat which faced that window—and gaily pledged the two men with her glass. But immediately afterwards, she got up, and moved towards the door.
“Toby, old boy—I wish you’d come and see to this ’ere tap for a minute,” she called out; and Toby Siggs got up heavily, and followed her.
Immediately Inspector Tokely rose also, and strolled—quite casually, as it seemed—across the room. Coming to the window, he said—apparently for the benefit of Clara—“I wonder what sort of a night it is”—and jerked back the curtain again.