Consequently the chief glory of
the place ain't got no right to be too high and mighty to accept your
humble invitation. The best guest-room for Sergeant Martlow, you'll
say. See there's a hot water-bottle in his bed, you'll say, and in case
he's thirsty in the night, you'll tell them to put the whisky by his
side."
After all, a man does not rise to become Sir William Rumbold by being
flabby. Sir William struck the table heavily. Somehow he had to put a
period to this mocking harangue. "Martlow," he said, "how many people
know you're here?"
Tim gave a good imitation of Sir William's gesture. He, too, could
strike a table. "Rumbold," he retorted, "what's the value of a secret
when it's not a secret? You three in this room know, and not another
soul in Calderside."
"Not even your mother?" queried Rumbold.
"No. I been a bad son to her in the past. I'm a good one now I'm dead.
She's got a bit o' pension, and I'll not disturb that. I'll stay
dead--to her," he added forcibly, dashing the hope which leapt in
Rumbold.
"Why have you come here? Here--to-night?"
The easy mockery renewed itself in Martlow's voice.
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