"Yes, but don't give yourself any trouble about it. Cold anything-you've-got."
"What about beef, sir?" she asked, as if she had a hundred varieties of meat to select from, and was offering him her best.
"That will do splendidly. And a pint of beer."
While he was finishing his lunch, the landlord came in to ask about the luggage. Antony ordered another pint, and soon had him talking.
"It must be rather fun to keep a country inn," he said, thinking that it was about time he started another profession.
"I don't know about fun, sir. It gives us a living, and a bit over."
"You ought to take a holiday," said Antony, looking at him thoughtfully.
"Funny thing your saying that," said the landlord, with a smile. "Another gentleman, over from the Red House, was saying that only yesterday. Offered to take my place 'n all." He laughed rumblingly.
"The Red House? Not the Red House, Stanton?"
"That's right, sir. Stanton's the next station to Woodham. The Red House is about a mile from here—Mr. Ablett's."
Antony took a letter from his pocket. It was addressed from "The Red House, Stanton," and signed "Bill."
"Good old Bill," he murmured to himself. "He's getting on."
