Denzil threw out the name as if it were a torpedo.  Wimp did not move.

“Tom Mortlake,” went on Denzil, looking disappointed, “had a sweetheart.”  He paused impressively.

Wimp said, “Yes?”

“Where is that sweetheart now?”

“Where, indeed?”

“You know about her disappearance?”

“You have just informed me of it.”

“Yes, she is gone—­without a trace.  She went about a fortnight before Mr. Constant’s murder.”

“Murder?  How do you know it was murder?”

“Mr. Grodman says so,” said Denzil, startled again.

“H’m!  Isn’t that rather a proof that it was suicide?  Well, go on.”

“About a fortnight before the suicide, Jessie Dymond disappeared.  So they tell me in Stepney Green, where she lodged and worked.”

“What was she?”

“She was a dressmaker.  She had a wonderful talent.  Quite fashionable ladies got to know of it.  One of her dresses was presented at Court.  I think the lady forgot to pay for it; so Jessie’s landlady said.”

“Did she live alone?”

“She had no parents, but the house was respectable.”

“Good-looking, I suppose?”

“As a poet’s dream.”

“As yours, for instance?”

“I am a poet; I dream.”

“You dream you are a poet.  Well, well!  She was engaged to Mortlake?”

“Oh, yes!  They made no secret of it.  The engagement was an old one.  When he was earning 36s. a week as a compositor, they were saving up to buy a home.  He worked at Railton and Hockes who print the New Pork Herald.  I used to take my ‘copy’ into the comps’ room, and one day the Father of the Chapel told me all about ‘Mortlake and his young woman.’  Ye gods!  How times are changed!  Two years ago Mortlake had to struggle with my calligraphy—­now he is in with all the nobs, and goes to the ‘At Homes’ of the aristocracy.”

“Radical M.P.’s,” murmured Wimp, smiling.

“While I am still barred from the dazzling drawing-rooms, where beauty and intellect foregather.  A mere artisan!  A manual labourer!” Denzil’s eyes flashed angrily.  He rose with excitement.  “They say he always was a jabberer in the composing-room, and he has jabbered himself right out of it and into a pretty good thing.  He didn’t have much to say about the crimes of capital when he was set up to second the toast of ’Railton and Hockes’ at the beanfeast.”

“Toast and butter, toast and butter,” said Wimp, genially.  “I shouldn’t blame a man for serving the two together, Mr. Cantercot.”

Denzil forced a laugh.  “Yes; but consistency’s my motto.  I like to see the royal soul immaculate, unchanging, immovable by fortune.  Anyhow, when better times came for Mortlake the engagement still dragged on.  He did not visit her so much.  This last autumn he saw very little of her.”

“How do you know?”

“I—­I was often in Stepney Green.  My business took me past the house of an evening.  Sometimes there was no light in her room.  That meant she was downstairs gossiping with the landlady.”