"You don't take enough exercise, Mr. Watson," he remarked. "No one can drink beer, not if they sit in an office all day. You want to be out in the open air, like George here." The old boatman nodded affirmatively. "Beer never 'urt me," he observed with a chuckle. "I reckon I drunk enough of it in my time to float a Thames barge." With a regretful shake of his head the little man applied himself to his whisky. "You couldn't do it, not if you were in the house agent line," he remarked. "It would have to be spirits or nothing then, the same as it is with me." I paid for my drink, and, strolling across the room, sat down at an empty table in one of the bay-windows. There was a paper lying in front of me--a weekly rag called the _Shalston Gazette_--which seemed to consist principally of advertisements. I picked it up, however, and, opening it at the centre page, made a deliberate pretence of glancing through the local news. For a moment or two the conversation at the other end of the bar languished; then, as if renewing a former discussion, the landlord suddenly addressed himself to Mr. Watson. "What I don't understand," he said, "is how they come to pitch on 'The Laurels.' It ain't the kind of place you'd think a gentleman would take a fancy to." "It suited this party right enough," returned the little man with a chuckle. "All he wanted was a house facing the water. He didn't seem particular about anything else, provided he could get that." I felt my heart begin to beat a shade quicker, for a sudden conviction that they were speaking about de Roda had flashed instantly across my mind. The landlord's next remark put the matter almost beyond question. "Well, I suppose, being a foreigner, he ain't used to comfort. He'll find it precious damp though, if we happen to have another summer like the last." "That's his look-out," returned the other. "He saw the place before he took it, so I don't see that he'll have any call to grumble. Anyhow, he's paid us six months' rent in advance." "What part o' the world d'you reckon he comes from, Mr. Watson?" enquired the boatman. "Some says he's a Frenchy, but it seems to me he's a bit too yaller in the face for that. More like some kind of a Eytalian to my way o' thinkin'." "He's neither," said Mr. Watson decisively. "He's a Spaniard--the same as those fellers who bring round the onions." "A Spaniard, is he?" ejaculated the landlord. "Fancy that now! Could you make out what he said?" Mr. Watson sucked in his lip. "After a fashion," he replied. "It wasn't too easy his first visit, but the second time he come along he brought his niece with him, and it was she that did most of the talking. I didn't have any trouble with her--none at all. Speaks English as well as you or me."