One of the old men began to weave slowly from side to side, an alarming mannerism which the Duke was to learn was the preliminary to speech.

“Urrr,” he said, and spat in the fire. He turned and held out a dirty horny hand. “Name of Gadger,” he said. There was a long silence and he began to weave again. “’Er’s Frimkin,” he added, jerking his head at the other old man.

The fire crackled into sudden life. The landlord behind the counter began to whistle through his teeth in an irritating way.

Mr. Gadger began to weave again. “Un’s dead,” he said and spat in the fire again. Mr. Frimkin sat immobile on the other side of the Duke like a piece of carved mahogany.

“Dead!” said the Duke impatiently. “What? The whole family? There was a child… a girl called Alice.”

“Urrr,” said Mr. Gadger and relapsed into a maddening silence. The Duke felt in his pocket and found a guinea. He drew it out and held it in front of Mr. Gadger’s rheumy eyes. “Think,” he said softly.

Mr. Gadger held out his hand for the gold but the Duke held it away. “Information first,” he insisted.

Now Mr. Gadger weaved so much that the Duke feared he was about to have a fit. Then the words came tumbling out from between his toothless gums.

“Lovelace, ’er was boatswain in the navy and cum here to retire as young man cos ’is chest was took poor and he coughed blood somethin’ orful. Marries Mary Abbott, widow needlewoman she wur and they has a babby. Lovelace couldn’t work on account o’ ’is chest and so Mary stitched and took in washin’. Urrr. He dies arter babby is born and good riddance. Allus moanin’ and whinin’. Mistress Lovelace works that ’ard. Stitchin’ and washin’ and stitchin’ and washin’. Liddle Alice ’elps ’er, see. Then Mistress Lovelace, ’er dies o’ the fever and Alice becomes mazed i’ the head. Wanders orf one day and h’aint bin ’eard of since. Urrr.”

There was a long silence while Mr. Gadger stretched out a paw toward the gold which the Duke was tossing absent-mindedly up and down in his hand.

“But, Alice,” said the Duke suddenly. “The child could read and write.”

“Urrr,” said Gadger, weaving again like some ancient cobra, hypnotized by the gold. “Curate’s missus taught child. Mistress Lovelace allus ’ad ideas above ’er station. Did curate’s laundry for naught, see, so’s babby could read.” Again he reached out but the Duke had one last hope.

“This Mrs. Lovelace who was Mrs. Abbot before her marriage. What were her antecedents?”

“Urrr?”

“Who were her parents?”

“Bert and Jessie Apple. Them’s dead too,” said Gadger sulkily, feeling he was being asked to do a powerful amount of work for the gold.

“And what was Bert Apple? What did he work at?”