I've the place pretty well to myself of an evening. It didn't use to be like that: he stuck to business well, did Wraypoole, before this affair, and he was rarely out at nights. Now he's in neither day nor night—till very late."
"Any idea where he goes?" enquired Wedgwood.
"I haven't! I don't know if she has—the housekeeper. Him and her's very thick now; I constantly see 'em talking together as if they'd some secret."
"Who is she—what's her name?"
"Mrs. Bowman," replied Stainsby. "She wasn't there when I first came; she's been there about nine months. She was wearing widow's clothes, then, but she soon left 'em off. I've had an idea that her and Wraypoole's thinking of getting married, but I haven't heard 'em say so."
"Um!" said Wedgwood. He stood for a moment or two, wondering if there was anything to be dug out of all this. Then he gave the apprentice a look that was intended to imply intense secrecy, and lowered his voice. "Look here, my lad!" he went on. "You can keep things to yourself as well as anybody, I'll bet! What?"
"If there's occasion," answered Stainsby, knowingly. "I can!"
