“Last night,” said the whisperer, hastily, “I went for a quiet walk round Victoria Park all by myself. Then I met Mr. Stokes, and we had one half-pint together at a public-house. That's all.”
Mrs. Henshaw looked at Mr. Stokes. Mr. Stokes winked at her.
“It's as true as my name is—Alfred Bell,” said that gentleman, with slight but natural hesitation.
“Have it your own way,” said Mr. Stokes, somewhat perturbed at Mr. Bell's refusal to live up to the character he had arranged for him.
“I wish my husband spent his evenings in the same quiet way,” said Mrs. Henshaw, shaking her head.
“Don't he?” said Mr. Stokes. “Why, he always seems quiet enough to me. Too quiet, I should say. Why, I never knew a quieter man. I chaff 'im about it sometimes.”
“That's his artfulness,” said Mrs. Henshaw.
“Always in a hurry to get 'ome,” pursued the benevolent Mr. Stokes.
“He may say so to you to get away from you,” said Mrs. Henshaw, thoughtfully. “He does say you're hard to shake off sometimes.”
Mr. Stokes sat stiffly upright and threw a fierce glance in the direction of Mr. Henshaw.