"Come to my office," cried Mr. Tatt, enthusiastically. "I can give you
a prime bit of Stilton, and as good a glass of bitter beer as ever you
drank in your life."
Mat declined this hospitable invitation peremptorily, and set forth at
once on his return to the station. All Mr. Tatt's efforts to engage him
for an "early day," and an "appointed hour," failed. He would only
repeat, doggedly, that at some future time he might have a question or
two to ask about a matter of law, and that his new acquaintance should
then be the man to whom he would apply for information.
They wished each other "good morning" at the entrance of the lane,--Mr.
Tatt lounging slowly up the High Street, with his terrier at his heels;
and Mat walking rapidly in the contrary direction, on his way back to
the railway station.
As he passed the churchyard, the funeral procession had just arrived at
its destination, and the bearers were carrying the coffin from the
hearse to the church door. He stopped a little by the road-side to see
it go in. "She was no good to anybody about her, all her lifetime," he
thought bitterly, as the last heavy fold of the velvet pall was lost to
view in the darkness of the church entrance. "But if she'd only lived a
day or two longer, she might have been of some good to me.
Pages:
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578