Blower
up from the fire opposite the bar, and stewpans and griddles empty and
idle on the bench beside it, among the unwashed bowls and dishes. Oyster
trade nearly over. Bar still busy.
Here comes Rollins in his shirt-sleeves, with an apron on. Thick-set,
muscular man,--frizzled head, low forehead, sharp, black eyes, flabby
face, with a false, greasy smile on it now, oiling over a curious,
stealthy expression of mingled surprise and inquiry, as he sees his
landlord here at this unusual hour.
"Come in here, Mr. Rollins; I want to speak to you."
"Yes, sir. Jim" (to the waiter), "go and tend bar." They sat down in
one of the booths, and lowered the curtain. Dr. Renton, at one side
of the table within, looking at Rollins, sitting leaning on his folded
arms, at the other side.
"Mr. Rollins, I am told the man who was stabbed here last night is dead.
Is that so?"
"Well, he is, Dr. Renton. Died this afternoon."
"Mr. Rollins, this is a serious matter; what are you going to do about
it?"
"Can't help it, sir.
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