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Topley lathered Dengate's red round face, and scraped it perfectly clean, feeling it all over with his soapy fingers, as well as carefully inspecting it with his eye, to make sure that none of the very bristly stubble was left. While Topley shaved, Dengate made plans, and as soon as the operation was over he went back home, and what he called "cleaned hisself."
As he proceeded she grew more attentive, and occasionally allowed her eyes to encounter his. "There's only one other person who has heard all this from me," he said at length. "That's a friend of mine at Birmingham a man called Narramore. When I got Dengate's money I went to Narramore, and I told him what use I was going to make of it." "That's what you haven't told me," remarked the listener.
Better than one could have looked for." Hilliard related the circumstances. Then he drew from his pocket an oblong slip of paper, and held it out. "Dengate?" cried his friend. "How the deuce did you get hold of this?" Explanation followed. They debated Dengate's character and motives. "I can understand it," said Narramore.
Dengate the butcher read the letter, grew red in the face, and, after buttoning up that letter in his breast-pocket, he put on his greasy cap, and went to Topley the barber to get shaved. Dengate's cap was greasy because, though he was a wealthy man, he worked hard at his trade, calling for orders, delivering meat, and always twice a week, to use his own words, "killing hisself."
"So you've turned out a blackguard, have you?" pursued his companion, whose name was Dengate. "I heard something about that." "From whom?" "You drink, I am told. I suppose that's your condition now." "Well, no; not just now," answered Hilliard. He spoke the language of an educated man, but with a trace of the Midland accent. Dengate's speech had less refinement.
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