“Well, Benton has a good deal more juice,” he smiled back.
Valerie looked curiously about her as they went on by the river. Along the bank there was a clay path, a few sheds and boathouses set on piles, and poles to which boats were moored right against the steep edge. The shops and stores faced them from the other side of the street, for this was a one-sided thoroughfare. People stood there in the doorways trying to get some air. There seemed to be a little breeze now coming out of the west. A limp farmer passed by in a creaking wagon, his horses drooping. There were several men ahead of them walking to the hotel. There were no sounds about them but the rattling and clanking of the steamer unloading at the wharf.
Soon she saw a large building looming out of the haze. It was a typical New Zealand small-town wooden hotel of two stories, with verandah and balcony along the front and down the side farthest from the centre of the town. Two men were lounging at the front door. Already she could smell the beer and feel the flies.
A large sign across part of the front told the passerby that this was the Dargaville hotel and that the proprietor was Thomas MacAlarney.
IV
Bob led Valerie down the near side of the house to the night entrance, along a narrow corridor to the hall, and up the back stairs to a room numbered nine without meeting a soul.
“Here you are,” he said. “Now I must get to the office. I’ll be back about six. If I were you I’d always use the side way. The front stairs come down beside the
