Part 23 (2/2)
”But he didn't get it. I took his number--and threatened to report him.... It's infernally inconvenient not being able to drive up to your own door--it's like living in a back alley.”
Then, with an air of rather surly importance, he told her his news about Bence.
”They're _afraid_ of him. They gave me the straight tip that he's shaky.
Mark my words, _that_ bubble is going to be burst.”
”But people have said so for so long.” And she explained that the story of Bence's approaching destruction was really a very old one. ”Year after year Mr. Prentice used to tell me the same thing--that Bence's were financially rotten, and couldn't last.”
”Prentice is an old a.s.s, and you're quite right not to believe all _he_ tells you. Between you and me and the post, I reckon that Mr. P. wants a precious sharp eye kept on him--I don't trust him an inch farther than I can see him.... But what was I saying? Oh, yes, Bence's. Well, it is not what Prentice says now--it's what _I_ say.”
Then he asked if there was anything in the house to eat. Yes, the dinner that had been ready for him three hours ago was still being kept hot for him.
”I don't want any dinner. I dined in London.... But I think I could do with a snack of supper.”
He went over to the sideboard, unlocked a lower division of it with his private key, and drew forth a half-bottle of champagne.
”If you'll help me, I'll make it a whole bottle.”
”No, thank you.”
Before re-locking the cupboard, he peered into it suspiciously.
”I don't think my wine is any too safe in this cellaret. How do I know how many keys there aren't knocking about the house? I may be wrong, but I thought I counted three more bottles than what's left.”
Then he rang the bell, and at the same time called loudly for the parlourmaid.
”Mary! Mary! Why the devil doesn't she come in and ask if anything's wanted?” He left the room, grumbling and fuming.
Mrs. Marsden heard his voice outside, and the voice of Yates timidly apologising.
Mary the parlourmaid had a very bad cold, and Yates had ventured to allow her to go to bed.
”Thank you for nothing.... Where's the cook? Cook--wake up, please;” and he went into the kitchen.
The servants feared him. They stammered and became stupid when he spoke to them crossly, but never failed to smile sycophantically when he expressed pleasure.
All that he required on this occasion from Cook was plenty of hot toast and cayenne pepper. But he sent Yates to buy some smoked salmon or herring at the restaurant in High Street.
”And sharp's the word.... What are you waiting for?”
”Oh, I don't mind going, sir--but I shall get wet to the skin.”
”Take my umbreller,” said the cook.
Yates went down the steep stairs, and the master looked in at the dining-room door.
”That woman is like some old cat--afraid of a drop of rain on her mangy old fur.”
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