“I am not afraid of you ,” interposed Miss Potterson, “if you mean that.”
“But I humbly don’t mean that, Miss Abbey.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“You really are so cruel hard upon me! What I was going to make inquiries was no more than, might you have any apprehensions—leastways beliefs or suppositions—that the company’s property mightn’t be altogether to be considered safe, if I used the house too regular?”
“What do you want to know for?”
“Well, Miss Abbey, respectfully meaning no offence to you, it would be some satisfaction to a man’s mind, to understand why the Fellowship Porters is not to be free to such as me, and is to be free to such as Gaffer.”
The face of the hostess darkened with some shadow of perplexity, as she replied: “Gaffer has never been where you have been.”
“Signifying in Quod, Miss? Perhaps not. But he may have merited it. He may be suspected of far worse than ever I was.”
“Who suspects him?”
“Many, perhaps. One, beyond all doubts. I do.”
“ You are not much,” said Miss Abbey Potterson, knitting her brows again with disdain.
“But I was his pardner. Mind you, Miss Abbey, I was his pardner. As such I know more of the ins and outs of him than any person living does. Notice this! I am the man that was his pardner, and I am the man that suspects him.”