Under the gentle suasion of Trenchard's arm, he moved a few steps up the street; then halted, his duty battling with his inclination.
"No, no," he muttered.

"If you will excuse me..." "Not I," said Trenchard, drawing from his hesitation a shrewd inference as to Richard's business.
"To drink alone is an abomination I'll not be guilty of." "But..." began the irresolute Richard.
"Shalt urge me no excuses, or we'll quarrel.

Come," and he moved on, dragging Richard with him.
A few steps Richard took unwillingly under the other's soft compulsion; then, having given the matter thought--he was always one to take the line of least resistance--he assured himself that his sentryship was entirely superfluous; the matter of Blake's affair was an entire secret, shared only by those who had a hand in it.

Blake was quite safe from all surprises; Trenchard was insistent and it was difficult to deny him; and the sack at the White Cow was no doubt the best in Somerset.

He gave himself up to the inevitable and fell into step alongside his companion who babbled aimlessly of trivial matters.