He was an elderly, clean-shaven, grey-haired man, spare of figure, dressed in rusty black; a wisp of white neckcloth at his throat gave him something of a clerical appearance: Cotherstone, who knew next to nothing about him, except that he was able to pay his rent and taxes, had already set him down as a retired verger of some cathedral.
"I should think you and Mr.Mallalieu are in no need of a bit of money, Mr.Cotherstone," he said quietly.

"Business seems to be good with you, sir." "Oh, so-so," replied Cotherstone, off-handedly.

"Naught to complain of, of course.

I'll give you a receipt, Mr.Kitely," he went on, seating himself at his desk and taking up a book of forms.

"Let's see--twenty-five pounds a year is six pound five a quarter--there you are, sir.