Maybe you
wouldn't mind steppin' down, seein' as you don't take no interest in
what Mr. Coyne's tellin'."
"I'm beginning to."
"The cellar's the worst place of all," said Mr. Coyne, blinking.
"It's there that the bodies were found."
"Bodies?"
"Bodies. Four of 'em. I was goin' to tell you how he brought home
another, havin' kept the third poor lady to her rooms with some tale
about a mad dog starvin' to death in his shrubberies--he didn't know
where--"
"If you don't mind," Mr. Jope interposed, "I've a notion to hear the
rest o' the story some other evenin'. It's--it's agreeable enough to
bear spinnin' out, an' I understand you're a fixture in this
neighbourhood."
"Certainly," said Mr. Coyne, rising. "But wot about _you_?"
"I'll tell you to-morrow."
Mr. Jope gripped the arms of his chair, having uttered the bravest
speech of his life. He sat for a while, the sound of his own voice
echoing strangely in his ears, even when Mr. Coyne rose to take his
leave.
"Well, I can't help admirin' you," said Mr. Coyne handsomely.
"By the way the rent's by the quarter, an' in advance--fours into
forty is ten; I mention it as a matter of business, and in case we
don't meet again.
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