“Who have you got in Cosy?” asked Miss Abbey.
“Only a gentleman and his wife, Miss.”
“And who are they? If one may ask it without detriment to your deep plans in the interests of the honest public?” said Miss Abbey, proud of Mr. Inspector as an administrative genius.
“They are strangers in this part of the town, Miss Abbey. They are waiting till I shall want the gentleman to show himself somewhere, for half a moment.”
“While they’re waiting,” said Miss Abbey, “couldn’t you join us?”
Mr. Inspector immediately slipped into the bar, and sat down at the side of the half-door, with his back towards the passage, and directly facing the two guests. “I don’t take my supper till later in the night,” said he, “and therefore I won’t disturb the compactness of the table. But I’ll take a glass of flip, if that’s flip in the jug in the fender.”
“That’s flip,” replied Miss Abbey, “and it’s my making, and if even you can find out better, I shall be glad to know where.” Filling him, with hospitable hands, a steaming tumbler, Miss Abbey replaced the jug by the fire; the company not having yet arrived at the flip-stage of their supper, but being as yet skirmishing with strong ale.
“Ah—h!” cried Mr. Inspector. “That’s the smack! There’s not a Detective in the Force, Miss Abbey, that could find out better stuff than that.”
“Glad to hear you say so,” rejoined Miss Abbey. “You ought to know, if anybody does.”
“ Mr. Job Potterson,” Mr. Inspector continued, “I drink your health. Mr. Jacob Kibble, I drink yours. Hope you have made a prosperous voyage home, gentlemen both.”