competence and
inattention to his duties, they retired him--with a pension. Krevin
Crood, sir, draws a hundred and fifty-six pounds a year out of the
revenues of this rotten little borough--all because he's Simon's
brother. Been drawing that--three pounds a week--for fifteen years now.
It's a scandal! However, as I say, he once had two thousand a year."

"A difference," remarked Brent.

"Ay, well, he adds a bit to his three pound," said Peppermore. "He does
odd jobs for people. For one thing, he carries out all Dr. Wellesley's
medicines for him. And he shows strangers round the place--he knows all
about the history and antiquities of the Castle, St. Hathelswide, and
St. Laurence, and the Moot Hall, and so on. A hanger-on, and a
sponge--that's what he is, Mr. Brent. But clever--as clever, sir, as
he's unprincipled."

"The Croods seem to be an interesting family," observed Brent. "Who is
that girl that I saw last night--the Alderman's niece? Is she, by any
chance, this chap's daughter?"

"Queenie," said Peppermore. "Pretty girl too, that, Mr. Brent. No, sir;
she's this chap's niece, and Simon's. She's the daughter of another
Crood. Ben Crood. Ben's dead--he never made anything out, either--died,
I believe, as poor as a church mouse. Simon's the moneyed man of the
Crood family--the old rascal rolls in brass, as they call it here. So he
took Queenie out of charity, and I'll bet my Sunday hat that he gets out
of her the full equivalent of all that he gives her! Catch him giving
anything for nothing!"

"You don't love Alderman Crood?" suggested Brent.

Peppermore picked up his glass of bitter ale and drank off what
remained. He set down the glass with a bang.

"Wouldn't trust him any farther than I could throw his big carcase!" he
said with decision. "Nor any more than I would Krevin there--bad 'uns,
both of 'em. But hullo! as nobody's come forward this morning, Krevin's
treating himself to a drink! That's his way--he'll get his drink for
nothing, if he can, but, if he can't, he's always got money. Old
cadger!"

Brent was watching Krevin Crood. As Peppermore had just said, nobody had
joined Krevin at the bar. And now he was superintending the mixing of a
drink which one of the shirt-sleeved barmen was preparing for him.
Presently, glass in hand, he drew near a little knot of men, who, in the
centre of the room, were gossiping in whispers. One of the men turned on
him.

"Well, and what's Sir Oracle got to say about