“Can you inform me where a Mrs. Randle lives?”
The sweep caught the white of Dr. Steel’s left eye, and jerked his pipe-stem laconically at the next cottage down the lane.
“No. 10.”
“Obliged,” and Parker Steel passed on.
Five minutes later the door of No. 10 Prospect Row was clapped snappishly on the doctor’s heels. It opened again when the smart physician had regained his carriage and driven off. A thin woman, with an old cloth cap perched on her mud-colored hair, came out bare-elbowed. Her face warned Mr. Bains of the fact that she was the possessor of a grievance.
“See the gent come along?”
The sweep nodded.
“Sort of kid-gloved gentleman that makes a respectable woman think of this ’ere charity as an insult. Mrs. Gibbins sent him to see my Tom. I’m thinking she might as well mind ’er business.”
Mr. Bains cocked his pipe and chuckled.
“Dr. Steel’s one of the smart ’uns,” he said.