not like the way he constantly looked out of the corner of his eyes at the other occupants of the room.
‘You never told me that you were a friend of Mr. Temple’s, Jimmy,’ reproached Hargreaves.
‘Well, I don’t know whether you’d call us friends or not, Reverend.’
Hargreaves seemed to understand, and was obviously amused. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be friends now, Jimmy.’ He turned to Temple. ‘He’s going straight, Mr. Temple, and making a very fine job of it.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Temple. ‘Jimmy always made a very fine job of everything,’ he added cryptically.
Mrs. Taylor intruded once more.
‘Anything I can get you, Parson?’
‘No,’ smiled Hargreaves, as though deliberating the point. ‘No, thank you very much, my dear. But I wonder if you would be so kind as to place these bills in a prominent position for me. I’m holding a special concert on Sunday afternoon, and I do hope the attendance will be a record.’
‘Well, I’ll do my best, Reverend,’ offered Mills. ‘I’ll bring some of my City pals along.’
‘Thank you, Jimmy, that’s very good of you,’ said Hargreaves, laying a friendly hand on Mills’ shoulder.
‘I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Hargreaves,’ said Mrs Taylor, taking the bills. ‘I can’t promise nothin’, mind you.’
‘Thank you, my dear. I know I can rely on you.’
‘Well, I must be toddlin’,’ said Jimmy Mills at length, draining his glass. ‘Good night, Mr. Temple.’
‘Good night, Jimmy.’
‘Good night, my son,’ said Hargreaves, shaking Jimmy’s hand.
‘Cheerio, Lucy,’ called Mills, with a significant wink and backward nod as he passed the tap-room.
Paul Temple tried to persuade his companion to change his mind about a drink, but the latter shook his head resolutely.
‘I have great faith in Jimmy Mills, Mr. Temple,’ said Hargreaves earnestly. ‘He’s changed a great deal in the last two years.’
‘I hope you’re right, sir. He used to be one of the cleverest confidence men in the country.’
‘Yes, yes, I know, Mr. Temple. How dreadful, how very dreadful!’ deplored Hargreaves, a shade too piously.
‘I don’t want to disillusion you, sir, but I think I ought to warn you that Mills has a knack of convincing anybody about anything he sets his mind on. Of course, it’s no business of mine, but—’
‘That’s all right, Mr. Temple. I quite understand, and I appreciate your trying to warn me. But I want to give Jimmy a chance.’
‘Do you spend much time here, sir – I mean in this part of the world?’ demanded Temple, abruptly changing the subject.
‘Oh, a great deal, Mr. Temple. I’m more or less in charge of the Seamen’s Hostel, you know. It’s uphill work, but I’m always doing my best to persuade those unfortunate fellows to regard our hostel as a sort of home from home.’ He added with a sigh, ‘My task isn’t an easy one, Mr. Temple, by any means.’
‘I’m sure it isn’t,’ said Temple sympathetically.
‘However, one mustn’t grumble. There’s never a dull moment; I’ll say that for my daily round.’
‘I can quite appreciate that,’ smiled the novelist. He looked round the smoky parlour, which was now filling up with men from all the seven seas. Temple noticed their looks of suspicion and lowered his voice.
‘Mr. Hargreaves, do you know a man called Wilson, Chubby Wilson?’
‘Why, yes, I know him quite well,’ admitted Hargreaves with some slight hesitation. ‘A delightful fellow, but – well, I hate to say this – thoroughly untrustworthy.’
He seemed reluctant to pursue the subject, and continued hastily: ‘Let’s talk about yourself, Mr. Temple. I’m really quite thrilled at meeting you like this. I’ve often wondered how you get those charming little eccentricities into your characterisation – but of course I see now. You come to places like this and study your types at first hand.’ He paused. ‘You know, it may sound rather funny, but I’ve always thought that, given the opportunity, I should be able to write.’
Paul Temple began to feel rather bored. He had not come to the Glass Bowl to swop enthusiasms with a literary amateur.
‘Oh, I know it sounds frightfully conceited,’ persisted Hargreaves deprecatingly, ‘and I suppose rather priggish in a way, but when one studies human nature in the raw, as it were—’
‘Talking of life in the raw, have you read The Front Page Men?’ asked Temple, quietly.
Whether Hargreaves resented this diversion from the subject of his ambitions, or whether he was taken aback by the question, Temple was not certain. But he paused for a moment before replying.
‘The Front Page Men? No, no, I haven’t read the book. I’m told it’s very good.’
‘Yes,’ said Temple, ‘extremely realistic.’
‘I really feel quite—er—reluctant to read it,’ confessed Hargreaves, ingenuously. ‘I mean, with all these terrible robberies, and that shocking case of Sir Norman Blakeley’s. Although I suppose one can hardly hold the dear lady who wrote the book responsible. After all, according to the newspapers, she is devoting the royalties to a worthy charity.’
Temple absent-mindedly picked up his glass, set it down again, and lit a cigarette.
‘Well, this is a coincidence,’ said Hargreaves suddenly, in a surprised voice. ‘Here’s the gentleman you were asking about.’
‘Chubby Wilson? Where?’ demanded Temple.
‘In that far corner, Mr. Temple. I only just caught a glimpse of him.’
‘Then would you excuse me?’ said Temple rather abruptly.
‘Why yes, yes, of course. But I hope we may meet again on some future occasion.’
‘Yes, I hope so too,’ hastily agreed Temple, as he quickly shook hands, and moved over to the corner of the bar which Hargreaves had indicated.
As he approached, he could hear Chubby Wilson’s voice rising above the hubbub of general conversation. Apparently Chubby was trying to impress his political opinions upon one of the loungers from outside, whom he had brought in for a drink.
Chubby was not exactly worthy of his cognomen. Rather was he inclined to be pudgy and flabby. His complexion was a dirty yellowish brown, and a shabby scarf concealed a none-too-clean neck. He paused occasionally in his harangue to draw a deep breath.
‘Hallo, Chubby, still on the soap box?’ Temple greeted him. Chubby Wilson seemed surprised, but quickly recovered.
‘Why, hello, Mr. Temple!’ Then he turned to his former listener. ‘’Op it, Larry!’ he ordered. The lounger leered questioningly at Temple, then slunk away.
‘Sit down, Mr. Temple,’ invited Chubby. ‘Quite like old times seeing you again.’
Temple did not obey. Instead, he leaned over and spoke authoritatively. ‘Chubby, I’m a very busy man, and I want to talk to you. Where can we go?’
‘Well now, let me think,’ mused Wilson. Then a solution suggested itself. ‘Follow me, guv’nor.’
He led the way outside and along the passage to a tiny sitting-room, meanly furnished and shabby to a degree. Chubby closed the door after them very carefully.
‘How’s this?’ he asked.
‘It’s not the Ritz,