“We’ve not much choice,” the burly man who might have been a baker said resignedly.
“No, indeed,” Mr. Greychurch agreed, “you have no choice but to leave here quietly. Please place your bills on the hall table and, as I have said, his Lordship will deal with them at the first possible opportunity.”
Sheepishly, their protests having died in them, they did as Mr. Greychurch suggested. Only when they were outside the front door could Tina hear them arguing with each other as they moved away down the Square obviously disgruntled and dissatisfied at the fruitlessness of their call.
The door was closed and she saw Mr. Greychurch give a deep sigh, then stagger to a chair and sit down as if the effort had been almost too much for him.
“I will bring you a glass of wine, Mr. Greychurch,” the but
