"Time enough then. You can find the door?"
Through the lane, bordered by rubbish, and on through the winding hall,
Jones went out. As Dunwoodie had said, there was time enough. There had
been no service--no summons, no complaint. It might be that there would
be none. The matter might adjust itself without any. It might be that
there was no ground for action. Jones could not tell. After the manner
of those who have crammed for a law examination, there had been a moment
when he knew, or thought he knew, it all. But also after the manner of
those who have not taken the post-graduate course which practice is, the
crammed knowledge had gone. Only remnants and misfits remained. It was
on these that he had conjectured the suit which, meanwhile, constituted
a nut to crack. There was time and to spare though. Besides, for the
moment, he had other things to do.
Then, as he went on to attend to them, he wondered why Dunwoodie, who,
he thought, must make a hundred thousand a year, lived like a ragpicker.
Before him, the starshell, which imagination projects, burst suddenly.
He said he had no virtues and probably told the truth, Jones decided. In
which case he cannot be a miser. But he also said he had no vices and
probably lied like a thief. The old scoundrel is a philanthropist. I
would wager an orchard of pippins on that, but there is no one to take
me up--except this policeman.
"Officer," he resumed aloud. "Behold a stranger in a strange land. By
any miracle, is there a taxi-stand nearby?"
Then presently Jones was directing a driver.
"The Tombs!"