to spare a little time between the mouthfuls, Bill gave an
account of his adventures. The landlord of the "Plough and
Horses" had been sticky, decidedly sticky--Bill had been unable
at first to get anything out of him. But Bill had been tactful;
lorblessyou, how tactful he had been.

"He kept on about the inquest, and what a queer affair it had
been, and so on, and how there'd been an inquest in his wife's
family once, which he seemed rather proud about, and I kept
saying, 'Pretty busy, I suppose, just now, what?' and then he'd
say, 'Middlin',' and go on again about Susan--that was the one
that had the inquest--he talked about it as if it were a disease
--and then I'd try again, and say, 'Slack times, I expect, just
now, eh?' and he'd say 'Middlin' again, and then it was time to
offer him another drink, and I didn't seem to be getting much
nearer. But I got him at last. I asked him if he knew John
Borden--he was the man who said he'd seen Mark at the station.
Well, he knew all about Borden, and after he'd told me all about
Borden's wife's family, and how one of them had been burnt to
death--after you with the beer; thanks--well, then I said
carelessly that it must be very hard to remember anybody whom you
had just seen once, so as to identify him afterwards, and he
agreed that it would be 'middlin' hard,' and then--"

"Give me three guesses," interrupted Antony. "You asked him if
he remembered everybody who came to his inn?"

"That's it. Bright, wasn't it?"

"Brilliant. And what was the result?"