“It’s far from a pleasant thing to be plotting about a dead man in the room where he died, especially when you happen to live in it.”
“But we are plotting nothing against him, Tony.”
“May be not, still I don’t like it. Live here by yourself and see how you like it.”
“As to dead men, Tony,” proceeds Mr. Guppy, evading this proposal, “there have been dead men in most rooms.”
“I know there have, but in most rooms you let them alone, and—and they let you alone,” Tony answers.
The two look at each other again. Mr. Guppy makes a hurried remark to the effect that they may be doing the deceased a service, that he hopes so. There is an oppressive blank until Mr. Weevle, by stirring the fire suddenly, makes Mr. Guppy start as if his heart had been stirred instead.
“Fah! Here’s more of this hateful soot hanging about,” says he. “Let us open the window a bit and get a mouthful of air. It’s too close.”
He raises the sash, and they both rest on the windowsill, half in and half out of the room. The neighbouring houses are too near to admit of their seeing any sky without craning their necks and looking up, but lights in frowsy windows here and there, and the rolling of distant carriages, and the new expression that there is of the stir of men, they find to be comfortable. Mr. Guppy, noiselessly tapping on the windowsill, resumes his whispering in quite a light-comedy tone.
“By the by, Tony, don’t forget old Smallweed,” meaning the younger of that name. “I have not let him into this, you know. That grandfather of his is too keen by half. It runs in the family.”
“I remember,” says Tony. “I am up to all that.”