“Good morning, Forsyth,” said Pomeroy. “Here’s a go.”
“What’s happened?” said Forsyth.
“Ointment for two,” said Pomeroy, searching his pockets, “complete with
bluebottle. Listen. The deceased—God bless him—has left me a most
desirable residence—cesspool and all. It’s a peach of a place,
overlookin’ the Bay of Biscay. What’s torn it up——”
“I know,” said Forsyth.
Pomeroy stared.
“Know?” he said. “But——”
“Miss Seneschal’s upstairs.”
Pomeroy started. Then he picked up his hat and was stepping a-tiptoe to
the door.
“Here,” said Forsyth, detaining him, “I’ve—I’ve persuaded her to see
you.”
“Not on your life,” said Pomeroy. “I—I’m rather frail this morning.”
“Will you renounce?”
“What, an’ let her have the lot? Not likely.”
“Then come upstairs,” said Forsyth. “The matter’s got to be
discussed—obviously. You don’t want to write about forty letters, do
you?”
“No, but——”
“Well, that’s what it means. More. In a case like this _oratio
obliqua_’s hopeless. One never gets down to things.”
Pomeroy hesitated.
“It’s all damned fine, Forsyth,” he said uneasily, “but we haven’t met
since—since the dust-up. Besides, it’s—it’s a very ticklish
business—revivin’ memories.”
With a considerable effort Forsyth maintained his gravity.
“I beg that you’ll do as I say. Miss Seneschal sees the wisdom of an
ordinary business talk. Surely you’re not going to be the one to
resist.”
Pomeroy stared upon the floor.