(_GEORGE puts down glasses over table._)

GEORGE. No, sir. I come here forty years ago next Easter, but I fancy he
was before my time.

PENFOLD. Yes, though not by long. He died when I was twenty, and I shall
be sixty-two next month, but that's neither here nor there.

(_GEORGE goes up to table C. tidying up and listening._)

LEEK. Who was this Jerry Bundler?

PENFOLD. A London thief, pickpocket, highwayman--anything he could turn
his dishonest hand to, and he was run to earth in this house some eighty
years ago.

(_GEORGE puts glass down and stands listening._)

He took his last supper in this room.

(_PENFOLD leans forward. BELDON looks round to L. nervously._)

That night soon after he had gone to bed, a couple of Bow Street
runners, the predecessors of our present detective force turned up here.
They had followed him from London, but had lost scent a bit, so didn't
arrive till late. A word to the landlord, whose description of the
stranger who had retired to rest, pointed to the fact that he was the
man they were after, of course enlisted his aid and that of the male
servants and stable hands. The officers crept quietly up to Jerry's