always treated them with a certain external deference--an unpleasant
crowd to quarrel with.

Ben Orming ordered beer for the three of them, and they leant against
the bar and whispered in sullen accents. Something had evidently
miscarried with the Ring. Mrs. Dawes continued to whine above the
general drone of the bar. Suddenly she said:

"Ben, you're a hot old devil, you are. We was just 'aving a discussion
like. Where was Wych Street?"

Ben scowled at her, and she continued:

"Some sez it was one place, some sez it was another. I _know_ where it
was, 'cors my aunt what died from blood p'ison, after eatin' tinned
lobster, used to work at a corset shop----"

"Yus," barked Ben, emphatically. "I know where Wych Street was--it was
just sarth of the river, afore yer come to Waterloo Station."

It was then that the coloured man, who up to that point had taken no
part in the discussion, thought fit to intervene.

"Nope. You's all wrong, cap'n. Wych Street were alongside de church,
way over where the Strand takes a side-line up west."

Ben turned on him fiercely.

"What the blazes does a blanketty nigger know abaht it? I've told yer
where Wych Street was."