If only he had not been such a
fool as to treat her shabbily last Sunday morning! He felt sorry,
and couldn't get rid of the vexation.
It worried him this afternoon as he left Quodlings in Norton Folgate
and walked towards the Bank. He was thinking, too, of a poor fellow
with a large family for whom he had tried these last few days to
find employment, without the usual success. In Threadneedle Street a
hand arrested him.
"Just the man I wanted," said the voice of Mr. Greenacre. He was in
an elegant overcoat, with a silk hat of the newest fashion. You
remember your promise?
"What promise?"
"Nonsense! But we can't talk about it here. Come to the Bilboes.
Don't know the Bilboes? What a mood you're in to-day."
Mr. Gammon flattered himself that he knew the City tolerably well,
but with the place of refreshment to which his friend now led him he
was totally unacquainted. It stood or lurked in a very obscure
by-way between the Bank and St. Paul's, and looked externally by no
means inviting; within, but for the absence of daylight at all
times, it was comfortable enough, and peculiarly quiet--something
between an old inn and a modern public-house, with several small
rooms for eating, drinking, smoking, or any other legitimate
occupation.
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