"It's not much that I wanted to speak to you about, Povey, but I thought you might help me. You'll be looking round for another place, I suppose, but if you can find time to run out to Bushey now and again, you'll be obliging me--personally."
Edward Povey expressed his willingness to do all that lay in his power.
"It's only to have a look at my little cottage there, Povey; I've been living there on and off, and now I'm off to Switzerland. My man goes with me, so I want you to run out and see that things are all right. I'll give you the key. Any letters that come you can keep for me until my return. I've got a few decent pictures at the cottage and some old silver that I'm anxious not to leave altogether unattended. Can I count on you?"
Edward repeated his assurances, but a sense of disappointment had come over him as Kyser had been speaking. The adventure was not panning out as he had hoped. At the same time, he told himself that he would be paid for his services, perhaps liberally, and it might prevent him having to touch the little nest-egg in the Post Office Savings Bank.
When Edward parted with his late employer and left the grill-room it was with the key of Adderbury Cottage, Bushey Heath, in his pocket, and rather a feeling of resentment against Mr. Kyser and his firm, who did not hesitate to use a servant of twenty-two years' standing as a mere caretaker.
And resentment was a dangerous thing in the brain of the new Edward Povey.
It was nine o'clock when Edward Povey pushed open the little iron gate of No. 8, Belitha Villas, Clapham, thereby announcing his return to the other eleven villas in the same row. For the twelve little iron gates of Belitha Villas had each its own peculiar squeak and clang, a fact that added considerably to the scandal-mongering of the little community, and had caused a certain old reprobate at No. 3 to make liberal use of the oil-can.
The master of No. 8 let himself in with his latch-key, and groping his way down the dark and narrow passage pushed open the dining-room door. The room was in darkness save for a little evil-smelling oil-lamp which shed a dismal radiance upon a cloth spread half across the table. An unsympathetic slab of red topside of beef glared aggressively from a dish in which the gravy had set to an unhealthy-looking fat-ringed jelly. This, flanked by the remains of a cottage loaf and a glass of ale, constituted the meal that Charlotte had left for the refreshment of her lord and master. The ale had long been drawn, and stood dead and listless, showing a surface destitute of foam. Edward took one sip, then sat down and lit a cigarette.