Brassington, which he had seen written so bold and large upon the cover of the rich cheque-book that warmed with a heavenly glow a certain pocket just beneath his dressing gown upon the right-hand side.
Mr, Ferguson said no more, but led the way back ponderously into the dirty little bedroom. He sat down upon the only rickety chair, his inferior standing, almost at attention, feeling there was something solemn about the moment. Mr. Montague sat upon the dirty little huddled bed, and watched the two Englishmen with weary unconcern.
"Samuel," said Mr. Ferguson in a new and graver tone, "you know all the lays and the lags about here, don't you?"
Mr. Montague did not reply; he tried to begin to smile, but stopped the smile with a cough.
"Well, now, there 's a Green Overcoat of Mr. Brassington's. Maybe you know it. Most do. He 's allus in it."
Mr. Montague shook his head in some despair, and continued to listen.
"Anyhow, it 's not here," continued Mr. Ferguson. "You wouldn't fake it, Sammy; it's not worth it, otherwise we 'd have looked upstairs," he added knowingly.
