No need to yowl at me like that," he protested.
He fumbled with the lock of a corner cupboard, opened it, and drew
forth a decanter and some glasses. A tumbler crashed to the floor, and
the slight accident was another factor in clearing his wits. He swore
volubly.
"Same thing 'appened that Sunday afternoon," he said, apparently
obvious of the other men's presence. "My poor lass upset one, she did.
Wish she'd ha' flung it at my 'ed. . . . Did it say 'went down with
all 'ands,' mister?" he demanded suddenly of the reporter.
"Yes, Mr. Verity."
"Is it true?"
"I trust not, but Lloyd's agent--well, I needn't tell you that Lloyd's
is reliable. Was your niece on board? Is she the lady mentioned in
the cablegram?"
Then Bulmer woke up to the fact that there was a stranger present.
"'Ello!" he cried angrily. "Wot are you doin' ere? 'Oo are you? Be
off, instantly."
"I am not going until Mr. Verity hears what I have to ask him, and
answers, or not, as he feels disposed," was the firm reply.
"Leave 'im alone, Dickey. It's all right. Wot does it matter now 'oo
knows all there is to know? Just gimme a minnit."
Verity poured out some brandy. Man is but a creature of habit, and the
hospitable Lancastrian does not drink alone when there is company.
Pages:
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247