suppose?”
“You’re not going to rake it all up with him?”
“I should feel more satisfied if I had had a word with him,” I answered.
“I wouldn’t. You can take my word for it. I mean to say, there’s Mrs. Munting to be considered.”
“I shouldn’t say anything to her. After all, it’s surely natural enough that I should wish to have Mr. Munting’s account of the business.”
“Yes—oh yes, I suppose it is.” He still looked worried and dissatisfied. “Well, goodbye. If you really must see Munting, here’s his address.”
As I opened the door of the studio, I nearly tripped over Mrs. Cutts, who was washing the linoleum. She came and let me out at the house-door.
“Puttin’ yer money on the wrong horse, young man, ain’t you?” she whispered.
“Look here,” I said, “you know something about this.”
“That’s as may be,” said she, slyly. “ Mrs. Cutts knows ’ow to govern ’er tongue. An unruly member, ain’t it, sir? That’s wot the Bible says.”
“I’ve no time to waste,” I answered; “if you have anything to say to me, you will find me at my hotel.” I mentioned the name, and then, with a certain disgust at the business, slipped half a crown into her hand.
She curtseyed, and I left her bobbing and dipping on the doorstep.
I cursed myself for a fool as I set off to find Munting. Undoubtedly Lathom would have warned him by telephone of what to expect. I was sure of it when I saw him. He struck me as conceited and pretentious—the usual type of modern literary man.