I knew Mr. Ashton very
well indeed--he was a good customer of mine, and sometimes he'd stop and
have a bit of chat with me. And I can tell you where he very often spent
an hour or two of an evening."
"Yes--where?" asked Viner.
"At the Grey Mare Inn, sir," answered Barleyfield promptly. "I have often
seen him there myself."
"The Grey Mare Inn!" exclaimed Viner, while Mrs. Killenhall and Miss
Wickham looked at each other wonderingly. "Where is that? It sounds like
the name of some village tavern."
"Ah, but you don't know this part of London as I do, sir!" said
Barleyfield, with a knowing smile. "If you did, you'd know the Grey Mare
well enough--it's an institution. It's a real old-fashioned place,
between Westbourne Grove and Notting Hill--one of the very last of the
old taverns, with a tea-garden behind it, and a bar-parlour of a very
comfortable sort, where various old fogies of the neighbourhood gather of
an evening and smoke churchwarden pipes and tell tales of the olden
days--I rather gathered from what I saw that it was the old atmosphere
that attracted Mr. Ashton--made him think of bygone England, you know,
Mr.
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