It was dark by the time Hardy reached the alley, and in most of the houses the lamps were lit behind drawn blinds. The steward's house, however, was in darkness and there was no response when he tapped. He turned the handle of the door and looked in. A dim figure rose with a start from a chair.
“I hope you were not asleep?” said Hardy.
“No, sir,” said the steward, in a relieved voice. “I thought it was somebody else.”
He placed a chair for his visitor and, having lit the lamp, slowly lowered the blind and took a seat opposite.
“I've been sitting in the dark to make a certain party think I was out,” he said, slowly. “She keeps making a excuse about Teddy to come over and see me. Last night 'e talked about making a 'ole in the water to celebrate 'Melia Kybird's wedding, and she came over and sat in that chair and cried as if 'er 'art would break. After she'd gone Teddy comes over, fierce as a eagle, and wants to know wot I've been saying to 'is mother to make 'er cry. Between the two of 'em I 'ave a nice life of it.”
“He is still faithful to Miss Kybird, then?” said Hardy, with a sudden sense of relief.
“Faithful?” said Mr. Wilks. “Faithful ain't no word for it. He's a sticker, that's wot 'e is, and it's my misfortune that 'is mother takes after 'im. I 'ave to go out afore breakfast and stay out till late at night, and even then like as not she catches me on the doorstep.”
“Well, perhaps she will make a hole in the water,” suggested Hardy.
Mr. Wilks smiled, but almost instantly became grave again. “She's not that sort,” he said, bitterly, and went into the kitchen to draw some beer.
He drank his in a manner which betokened that the occupation afforded him no enjoyment, and, full of his own troubles, was in no mood to discuss anything else. He gave a short biography of Mrs. Silk which would have furnished abundant material for half-a-dozen libel actions, and alluding to the demise of the late Mr. Silk, spoke of it as though it were the supreme act of artfulness in a somewhat adventurous career.