"So shall I," I said, and, with a firm conviction that for once at least we were both speaking the entire truth, I allowed the current to carry us slowly apart.
CHAPTER NINE
It cannot be said that Bascomb received the news of my expected guest with anything resembling enthusiasm. I broached the subject while he was clearing away the dinner things, and for a moment he stood at the table without replying—a study in sullen disapproval.
"Well, you knows your own business best, sir," he observed at last. "If you wants to 'ave 'im 'ere you must 'ave 'im 'ere, an' that's all there is to it."
"I am not asking him for the charm of his society, Bascomb," I said. "The fact is, I have been thinking over what you told me the other night, and I have come to the conclusion that Dr. Manning wants watching."
"You're right there, sir," was the grim answer. "'Im an' that beauty Craill, too. You couldn't find a better pair, not if you was to scratch 'ell with a pocket-comb."
"Who's Craill?" I demanded.
"Craill's the bloke wot lives with 'im, an' looks after the barge. 'E come along 'ere one day when the guv'nor was ill, and it was as much as I could do to stop Satan from tearin' 'im in 'alf."
"What was the trouble?" I asked. "Didn't he like his looks?"