Something about the landlord’s disordered physiognomy began to suggest to his mind the head of a decapitated criminal carried on a pole. It was just as he was wondering how he was going to slip away from these two, that there came into his head, as if from the lips of a goblin inside him, that queer tag of bawdy gibberish which Manley⁠—or was it Josh Beard?⁠—had chaunted so derisively that night at the Three Peewits. “Jimmy Redfern⁠ ⁠… he was there!” mocked this jibing voice.

But the man’s face had begun to expand with such maudlin satisfaction that it became absurdly puckered and puffed out, like a toy balloon composed of crocodile-skin.

“One who looks after you so well, Mr. Round⁠—” continued Wolf.

At that moment, however, he caught the eye of the automatic young lady fixed upon him so quizzically that he felt the colour mounting to his cheeks.