That first introduction had, in the course of years, ripened into friendship. Nearly every morning Mr. Copperdock was in the habit of stepping across the road and having a chat with old Ludgrove. Mr. Copperdock loved somebody to talk to. If you went into his shop to buy a packet of your favourite cigarettes you were lucky if you got out after less than five minutes conversation. In the evening, after the shop was closed, a select company in the saloon bar of the Cambridge Arms gave Mr. Copperdock the opportunities he sought. Mr. Copperdock, who had been a widower for many years, always talked of retiring in favour of his only child Edward. “Does the lad good to be left in charge of the shop for a bit,” was his father’s justification for his morning talk with his friend the herbalist. And Mr. Ludgrove, whose trade was never very brisk in the mornings, always seemed glad to see him. Thus, on the Monday following Mr. Tovey’s adventure it was to Mr. Ludgrove that Sam Copperdock hastened to unbosom himself. He was simply bursting with news, and he watched impatiently until the unlocking of Mr. Ludgrove’s shop door indicated that that gentleman was ready to receive visitors. Then he bustled across the road and into the shop. “Are you there, Ludgrove?” he called out. “Come in, come in, Mr. Copperdock,” replied a welcoming voice from behind the curtain, and the tobacconist, with an air of supreme importance, passed into the inner room. The room was half-parlour, half-laboratory. One side of it was entirely occupied by a long bench, upon which stood a variety of scientific instruments. At the other side, placed round a cheerful fire, were two comfortable arm-chairs, in one of which sat the herbalist himself. With a hospitable gesture he motioned Mr. Copperdock towards the other, but the tobacconist was too excited to perceive the invitation. “I say, have you heard the news about poor Jim Tovey?” he exclaimed, without preliminary. “My dear sir, I read my paper pretty thoroughly every morning, as you know,” replied Mr. Ludgrove with a glance at the sheet which lay on the table by his side. But Sam Copperdock merely snorted impatiently. “Newspaper!” he exclaimed, “why, the newspapers don’t know nothing about it! I tell you I’ve been up three parts of the night over this affair.” “Indeed? Then you probably know all the details,” replied the herbalist. “If you can spare the time, I should be very interested if you would sit down and tell me all about it.” This was exactly what Mr. Copperdock had meant to do. He sank heavily into the chair with a portentous sigh. “Terrible thing, terrible,” he began, shaking his head. “I’ve known Jim Tovey ever since he first took that shop in Lisson Grove, and to think that a thing like this should happen to him! And his poor daughter Ivy spent the best part of the evening at my place, too.”