Mr. Inspector immediately slipped into the bar, and sat down at the side of the half-door, with his back towards the passage, and directly facing the two guests. “I don’t take my supper till later in the night,” said he, “and therefore I won’t disturb the compactness of the table. But I’ll take a glass of flip, if that’s flip in the jug in the fender.”

“That’s flip,” replied Miss Abbey, “and it’s my making, and if even you can find out better, I shall be glad to know where.” Filling him, with hospitable hands, a steaming tumbler, Miss Abbey replaced the jug by the fire; the company not having yet arrived at the flip-stage of their supper, but being as yet skirmishing with strong ale.

“Ah — h!” cried Mr. Inspector. “That’s the smack! There’s not a Detective in the Force, Miss Abbey, that could find out better stuff than that.”

“Glad to hear you say so,” rejoined Miss Abbey. “You ought to know, if anybody does.”

“Mr. Job Potterson,” Mr. Inspector continued, “I drink your health. Mr. Jacob Kibble, I drink yours. Hope you have made a prosperous voyage home, gentlemen both.”

Mr. Kibble, an unctuous broad man of few words and many mouthfuls, said, more briefly than pointedly, raising his ale to his lips: “Same to you.” Mr. Job Potterson, a semi-seafaring man of obliging demeanour, said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Lord bless my soul and body!” cried Mr. Inspector. “Talk of trades, Miss Abbey, and the way they set their marks on men” (a subject which nobody had approached); “who wouldn’t know your brother to be a Steward! There’s a bright and ready twinkle in his eye, there’s a neatness in his action, there’s a smartness in his figure, there’s an air of reliability about him in case you wanted a basin, which points out the steward! And Mr. Kibble; ain’t he Passenger, all over? While there’s that mercantile cut upon him which would make you happy to give him credit for five hundred pound, don’t you see the salt sea shining on him too?”

“you do, I dare say,” returned Miss Abbey, “but I don’t. And as for stewarding, I think it’s time my brother gave that up, and took his House in hand on his sister’s retiring. The House will go to pieces if he don’t. I wouldn’t sell it for any money that could be told out, to a person that I couldn’t depend upon to be a Law to the Porters, as I have been.”

“There you’re right, Miss,” said Mr. Inspector. “A better kept house is not known to our men. What do I say? Half so well a kept house is not known to our men. Show the Force the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters, and the Force — to a constable — will show you a piece of perfection, Mr. Kibble.”

That gentleman, with a very serious shake of his head, subscribed the article.

“And talk of Time slipping by you, as if it was an animal at rustic sports with its tail soaped,” said Mr. Inspector (again, a subject which nobody had approached); “why, well you may. Well you may. How has it slipped by us, since the time when Mr. Job Potterson here present, Mr. Jacob Kibble here present, and an Officer of the Force here present, first came together on a matter of Identification!”

Bella’s husband stepped softly to the half-door of the bar, and stood there.

“How has Time slipped by us,” Mr. Inspector went on slowly, with his eyes narrowly observant of the two guests, “since we three very men, at an Inquest in this very house — Mr. Kibble? Taken ill, sir?”

Mr Kibble had staggered up, with his lower jaw dropped, catching Potterson by the shoulder, and pointing to the half-door. He now cried out: “Potterson! Look! Look there!” Potterson started up, started back, and exclaimed: “Heaven defend us, what’s that!” Bella’s husband stepped back to Bella, took her in his arms (for she was terrified by the unintelligible terror of the two men), and shut the door of the little room.