Part 14

And this he very charitably did. Mr. Tridge, although leaning heavily on his companion’s supportive arm, none the less otherwise ignored the presence of Mr. Sinnett. Moved by contact with the open air to a reflective mood, Mr. Tridge, as he walked, growled aloud a resentful epitome of his conversation in the “Cutlass and Cannon,” coming back again and again to dwell on his firmness in refusing to part with his booty. Arrived at the door of his lodgings, he found his latchkey, and then turned to his escort.

“’Ullo, where did _you_ spring from?” he asked, dully.

“I’ve been seeing you home,” replied Mr. Sinnett, in benevolent accents.

“Like your cheek!” grunted Mr. Tridge. “Ne’ mind! Jolly good fellow! Mush ’bliged! Goo’ night!”

He opened the door, and was passing over the threshold, when Mr. Sinnett addressed him a little desperately.

“Ain’t you—ain’t you going to ask me in?” he queried.

“No!” said Mr. Tridge, flatly. “You leave me ’lone!”

“I—I’d like to have a look at that idol you was talking about. Just—just see it, you know.”

“Hidol?” exclaimed Mr. Tridge, staring about him alarmedly. “What hidol? I don’t know nothing about no hidol!”

“Oh, but you’ve been telling me—”

“I ain’t never seen no hidol, not nowhere!” declared Mr. Tridge. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Hidol, hindeed! ’Ere,” he quavered, “’ave I been fool enough to— But that’s all right! I know I ain’t—I’ve only jus’ met you this very minute, and I ain’t ’ad time to. Well, goo’ ni’, old chum!”

He leered owlishly upon Mr. Sinnett, shook him by the hand, and lurched most realistically over the threshold. Quietly he shut the door, and instantly all inconsequence of manner vanished from him. He stood to listen to the slow, receding footsteps of Mr. Sinnett, and at that moment the two gentlemen exhibited exactly the same exultant expression of countenance.

“We got ’im!” remarked Mr. Tridge to himself, with vast satisfaction.

“Talk about sheer _luck_!” joyously murmured Mr. Sinnett, as he walked away. “George, my boy, you’re on the track of something good! Why, it’s like one of them old detective tales come true!”

For the ensuing portion of the week, Mr. Sinnett’s everyday pursuits suffered neglect, for that worthy had apparently conceived an obsession to have either Mr. Tridge or Mr. Clark continually under observation. And so for each of several mornings he entered the Magnolia Toilet Saloon and sat him down on the bench where those waited who required Mr. Tridge’s professional services.

Here Mr. Sinnett would become so engrossed in the newspaper that he would waive his turn for attention till he was the only patron remaining. And when he had no further pretext for lingering, he would be shaved, and then go off to the ferry, where he would be needlessly rowed across the ferry and return by that conveyance almost immediately.

And in the afternoon he would find that he had need of toilet soap, or a bottle of hair-oil, and he would repair to Mr. Tridge’s establishment to procure such article, making the matter of purchase as protracted a business as possible. And then he would saunter down to the ferry and, alleging that sea air was good for him, be taken several consecutive journeys across the river under the impulse of Mr. Clark’s sculls.

And in the evening he would visit the “Flag and Pennant” inn, or such other tavern as might be extending its hospitality to Mr. Tridge or Mr. Clark, and here he would laboriously contrive desultory conversation with one or other of them until doors had to be closed, when his way would strangely coincide with the homeward path of that gentleman of the twain in whose society closing-time had found him.

But never a word was there spoken of an idol of any sort. Twice or thrice Mr. Sinnett had broached Imperialism as a topic of conversation, being thus enabled to allude to India in a natural, unforced way. But mention of that empire had instantly caused both Mr. Tridge and Mr. Clark to look suspicious and markedly avoid any development of the subject, so that Mr. Sinnett had to travel warily back, by way of Canada and Australia and New Zealand, to shallower waters.

And, for their part, Mr. Tridge and Mr. Clark bore the partiality of Mr. Sinnett for their society with nothing but a nice air of gratitude for patronage. Not once did either of them make allusion to that recent evening when they had shown him something of the inner side of their confidence. And Mr. Sinnett was glad that this should be so, for clearly, he argued, it showed that the conversations had had no abiding place in their memories. Wherefore, then, he cultivated their company, waiting for a chance word to swell the bulk of his secret information and give him assistance in turning this knowledge to his own profit.

“Ever seen a cat waiting outside a mouse-’ole? That’s ’im!” Mr. Clark privately reported to Mr. Horace Dobb.

“A bit of waiting don’t do no ’arm,” said Mr. Dobb, sagaciously. “The more time ’e spends the less ’e’ll like to think that it might ’ave been wasted.”

So that it was not till one evening in the middle of the following week that Mr. Sinnett was thrilled by a further unwinding of the spool of adventure.

On that night, neither Mr. Clark nor Mr. Tridge were to be discovered in accustomed haunts, and Mr. Sinnett, fearful of this coincidence, went from hostelry to hostelry in feverish search. Returning to the “Royal William Hotel” for a second time, he again questioned the billiard-marker.

“No, Mr. Tridge ain’t been in here yet, sir,” Mr. Lock replied. “In fact, I was just wondering whether you’d come across him anywhere. There’s been some one inquiring very eager after him since you was here a hour ago.”

“Who was it—that ferryman?”

“No, sir; a dark gentleman.”

“A—a nigger?” exclaimed Mr. Sinnett.

“Well, yes; except that he was dressed quite respectable,” acquiesced Mr. Lock. “Oh, very respectable indeed. He looked as if he might be pretty well off at home.”

“Did he say he wanted to see Tridge important?”

“Very important, so he said, sir. He said something about only just having managed to find out where he was, and about a boat sailing back almost immediate.”

“Um-m-m,” commented Mr. Sinnett, and thoughtfully began to stroke his chin. “Did he—did the nigger say where he was stopping, or anything like that?”

“No, sir. I told him where Mr. Tridge lodged, and—”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that!”

“No, sir? Why not?”

“Oh, because—”

Mr. Sinnett, without furnishing the explanation, stopped short, for Mr. Tridge had just entered the room. Conspicuously bandaged was Mr. Tridge’s right hand, and a huge asterisk of sticking-plaster decorated his left cheek.

“’Ad a bit of a haccident,” he returned, evasively, when Mr. Sinnett asked a surprised question. “Cut meself.”

“How?” further inquired Mr. Sinnett.

“With a knife,” said Mr. Tridge.

“Whatever was you a-doing of, sir?” asked Mr. Lock.

“What the devil’s that got to do with you?” roared Mr. Tridge. “You shut up and mind your own business!”

“Sorry, sir,” humbly apologized Mr. Lock. “By the way, sir, there was a dark gent inquiring for you.”

“I know,” said Mr. Tridge, curtly. “I met ’im!”

And now the door opened, and the visage of Mr. Clark stared round it. Vengeful and gloating was the stout ferryman’s face, and he nodded with malevolent satisfaction at Mr. Tridge.

“Ah, ’e told me ’e ’ad!” he cried. “Good luck to ’im!”

“You get out!” shouted Mr. Tridge, passionately. “Else I’ll serve you like I did ’im!”

“Pooh, ’e was only shamming!” retorted Mr. Clark. “’E got up again and walked away soon as you’d gone.”

“Well, shut up, anyway!” ordered Mr. Tridge, with a warning scowl. “Don’t you think you’ve said more than enough already?”

“Them?” said Mr. Clark, glancing carelessly at Mr. Sinnett and Mr. Lock. “They don’t know nothing.”

“Oh, well, ’e didn’t get it, anyway!” declared Mr. Tridge.

“’E’ll get it all right in the end,” prophesied Mr. Clark, darkly. “You mightn’t get off so lucky next time.”

“’E’ll never get it,” stated Mr. Tridge, with dour confidence.

“Not if you deals fair by me,” said Mr. Clark. “P’r’aps he won’t, then, not against the two of us.”

“I’ve told you I ain’t sharing, once and for all!” bellowed Mr. Tridge.

“All right!” growled Mr. Clark. “You’ll be sorry. I could tell you something if I liked. Made _me_ sit up when I ’eard it, anyway. Look ’ere, I give you fair warning—in future it’s either to be me and you, or me and _’im_! Take your choice. Anyway, after what I’ve learnt to-night, I’m going to be _in_ it, some-’ow!”

“Nothing doing!” announced Mr. Tridge, stoutly.

“All right,” said Mr. Clark, in the most sinister fashion. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

He withdrew. Mr. Tridge began to whistle a little flatly, as though unaware of the absorbed gaze bent upon him by the other two men present.

“Reminds me—letter to post!” ejaculated Mr. Sinnett, suddenly; and followed after Mr. Clark, in a state of the keenest excitement.

Mr. Clark had proceeded but as far as the tap-room of the “Royal William,” and here Mr. Sinnett unostentatiously took up a strategic position in the chair next to him. For some while Mr. Clark displayed an introspective moodiness, sipping at his refreshment and nodding his head with the same grim air of determination.

But presently he turned towards Mr. Sinnett, and, after eyeing him cautiously, addressed him in the gruff tones of one determined to check any unnecessary extension of talk.

“’Ow much is hemeralds worth?” he asked.

“Emeralds?” fluttered Mr. Sinnett. “Emeralds?” He paused to strive for greater self-control.

“That’s what I said,” observed Mr. Clark, surlily. “Hemeralds. You know, them green stones.”

“It—it depends.”

“I see,” said Mr. Clark, and pointedly turned his shoulder to Mr. Sinnett.

“How—how big are they?” ventured Mr. Sinnett.

“Both of ’em are a pretty fair size,” said Mr. Clark. “But it don’t matter. I—I was only just wondering. See?”

He brought his back even more deliberately into Mr. Sinnett’s cognizance, and the conversation ended. And, a few minutes after, he quitted the room with so ungenial an air that Mr. Sinnett had not the courage to accompany him. And he found Mr. Tridge was gone from the billiard-room, so that there was nothing left for Mr. Sinnett to do but to retire home to spend a night of fitful slumber.

Early next morning did he enter the Magnolia Toilet Saloon, drawn thither by an irresistible desire to keep abreast of every development in this affair which so tantalizingly suggested personal profit without indicating the means thereto.

“Morning, sir!” said Mr. Tridge.

“Morning!” returned Mr. Sinnett. “I just looked in to see how those wounds of yours are getting on.”

“Oh, they’re all right,” said Mr. Tridge; and added, in the casual tones of heroism, “Matter of fact, it was a bit of a scrap. And, what’s more, I ’ad another one after I left you last evening. Only, of course, I don’t want you to talk about ’em. It won’t do this ’ere saloon no good.”

“And—and the second scrap?”

“Ah, that was in my lodgings! When I got ’ome,” narrated Mr. Tridge, “I see my window open. Indoors I goes, very quiet. Blest if they wasn’t trying to burgle me!”

“Burgle you? Who was?”

“Why, that—oh, just a couple of chaps. I ’it out at ’em, and they closed with me. In the end,” concluded Mr. Tridge, modestly, “they was both glad enough to jump out of the window.”

“Well, well!” breathed Mr. Sinnett.

Mr. Tridge smiled, and then broke into chuckles.

“It’s rather a joke,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you something, if you promise you won’t repeat it.”

“Oh, I promise!” cried Mr. Sinnett, readily.

“Well, they was after something that wasn’t there at all! Mind you, they _thought_ it was! It was something I’d ’ad for a long time, and they was very anxious to get it. Many and many a try they’d ’ad for it. But I wouldn’t let ’em ’ave it. The first scrap last night—that was one of their hattempts. Any one might think it worth ’undreds of pounds, the way they keeps on trying. But it ain’t.”

“Isn’t it?” asked Mr. Sinnett, in strained tones.

“Only as a curiosity. It’s vallyble, far as that goes. Anyway, I ’ad no difficulty in getting twelve quid for it last night.”

“You—you’ve sold it?” cried Mr. Sinnett.

“I ’ave. After that first scrap last night, I got so sick about ’aving to bother about its being safe always that I just took and sold it. Not to _them_, of course, I wouldn’t give in to _them_. I sold it to Dobb, in Fore Street. ’E see at once that it was a genuine curiosity, and ’e didn’t ’aggle a bit.”

For several long seconds Mr. Sinnett stared at Mr. Tridge. Then, with a start, he purchased a superfluous stick of shaving-soap, and wandered from the premises. Scarce had he gone twenty yards when he found himself accosted by Mr. Peter Lock.

“Just the very gent I was ’oping to see!” said Mr. Peter Lock, exhibiting suppressed excitement. “There’s something a bit queer afoot, sir, what I’d like to talk over with you. You know about that row Mr. Tridge ’ad with the ferryman last night. At least, I think it’s something to do with that.”

“We can talk in here,” said Mr. Sinnett; and drew Mr. Lock into the “Bunch o’ Grapes.”

“Mind you, sir, I don’t take no responsibility,” said Mr. Lock. “But it’s queer. That Indian gent come into the billiard-room not half an hour ago. He said he’d arranged to meet Clark, the ferryman, there at noon, but he found he must get back to London by the eleven-eleven train this morning. And so he gave me a note to hand to him.”

“Well?”

“Well, sir, he said something about advising Clark to lay low after last night. He said he’d forgot to put that in the note, and asked me to mention it to Clark. Remembered it just as he was going, he did, and come back to tell me. Well, now, sir, I don’t want to get mixed up in no fishy cases. If you remember what them two was saying to each other last night—”

“Open the note,” directed Mr. Sinnett.

“Just what I was thinking, sir. That’s why I wanted to see you, because you was there and know as much about it as I do. If there’s any risk, I don’t mean to be in it at all.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Sinnett. “Open the note and make sure.”

With a certain trembling eagerness, Mr. Sinnett watched Mr. Lock draw an envelope from his pocket.

“You can easily put it in a new envelope,” said Mr. Sinnett, as Mr. Lock began to stare perplexedly at the flap.

“I never thought of that,” said Mr. Lock, and at once tore open the missive. It was very short.

“_I am at 17_, _Somerset Terrace_, _Poplar_, _till to-morrow_. _Ten my boat sails_, _but letters there will be forwarded me_. _Keep to our bargain_. _Do not forget that I am prepared to pay a higher price than anyone else for it_.”

“Strange,” murmured Mr. Lock.

“Seventeen, Somerset Terrace, Poplar,” muttered Mr. Sinnett. “Seventeen, Somer—”

“Do you thing there’s anything in the address, sir?” asked Mr. Lock, curiously.

“If you take my advice,” said Mr. Sinnett, impressively, “you’ll burn that note and say no more about it.”

“I think that would be safest,” agreed Mr. Lock, and, striking a match, ignited the missive in the fire-place.

“Well, I must be going,” said Mr. Sinnett, coming to a sudden briskness; and, settling the score, he hastened away.

Five minutes later he was in the presence of Mr. Horace Dobb. Permission to glance round the stock had been met with suave and smiling acquiescence, and almost immediately Mr. Sinnett, with false calm, was inquiring the price of a small idol.

“That?” said Mr. Dobb. “Oh, I’d let you have that for twenty pounds. Genuine curiosity, that is, sir. I dare say it’s worth a lot more, but I want to make you a customer. Ah, that won’t be on my shelves long, for all I only bought it last night. Always getting inquiries for genuine foreign idols, I am. That’s the only one I’ve got in my shop at present. There’s a lot of connoshers of them things about.”

“Twenty pounds?” said Mr. Sinnett. “Why, man, I happen to know you only gave twelve for it!”

“Ah, I’d ’ave given more if ’e’d pressed me, but ’e seemed anxious to get rid of it. And, anyway, sir, I’d ’ave got twenty pounds easy enough for it yesterday afternoon, if I’d ’ad it. There was a Indian gentleman in ’ere hinquiring if by any chance I ’ad any hidols. Particular keen ’e seemed to get one just like that. ’E might ’ave been—”

“Fifteen pounds,” offered Mr. Sinnett.

And so it was; but even then, Mr. Dobb only yielded with professed reluctance to losing the chance of Mr. Sinnett as a regular patron thenceforward.

That same evening Mr. Clark, Mr. Tridge, and Mr. Lock foregathered in Mr. Dobb’s parlour.

“Yes, I see ’im go,” said Mr. Tridge. “’E’d got it in a portmanteau. Caught the two-twenty-one, ’e did. ’E’ll be in London by now. Can’t you fancy ’im getting more and more hexcited at that ’ouse, trying to hexplain to ’em that ’e wants to see a nigger they don’t know nothing about? And ’e’ll think they’re trying to deceive ’im, and ’e’ll tell ’em all the ’ole story, just to show ’e’s telling the truth, and—”

“Oh, ’e’ll be very hagitated,” said Mr. Clark. “’E’s that sort, I bet, when things goes sideways. Serve ’im right! Anyway, thanks for my share, ’Orace. I shall be able to do a bit of slate-cleaning with it. By the way, what haddress did you send ’im looking for, Peter?”

“Seventeen, Somerset Terrace, Poplar. ’Orace told me to write down any old address I happened to think of, didn’t you, ’Orace? And Seventeen, Somerset Terrace, come easiest to my mind. I don’t know where I got it from.”

“Seventeen, Somerset—” gasped Mr. Tridge and Mr. Clark, simultaneously.

“That’s it.”

“Then I can tell you where you got it!” shouted Mr. Tridge. “You come and see me and Sam Clark there many a time while we was lodging there, when the old ‘Jane Gladys’ was being repaired that time.”

“Ah, of course, I remember now!” said Mr. Lock. “A nice, comfortable, homely place it was, too!”

“And you’ve sent Sinnett _there_ to start questioning and arguing and hexplaining?” roared Mr. Tridge. “Why, Sam and me ran up a bill for the ’ole six weeks we stopped there, and then we skipped off without paying. And _now_—”

_EPISODE X_ THE GIRL HE LEFT BEHIND HIM

That rising man of affairs, Mr. Horace Dobb, was setting out on his afternoon stroll—which is relatively equivalent to saying that Beau Nash had just appeared in the Pump Room at Bath, or that the Prince Regent had issued forth to sun himself on the Steine at Brighthelmstone.

For, whatever drab limitations the keeping of a second-hand shop might impose upon Mr. Dobb’s wardrobe during the exigencies of the morning, the afternoon would almost invariably have the gratification of witnessing that gentleman’s apotheosis. Then Mr. Dobb who spent his mornings in dragging bulky things about in the remote dustiness of his outhouse, or in cajoling and brow-beating clients across the counter, was as different from the Mr. Dobb of the afternoon as is the lowly grub from the full-winged butterfly.

Mr. Dobb, because he deemed that he owed a fitting publicity to his occupation and to his own personality, had taken the hours which intervene between dinner and tea, and had incorporated them into a general scheme for his glorification. Other business men might permit the searching post-meridian sunshine to illuminate frayed cuffs and shiny elbows, to exhibit symptoms of haste and heedlessness upon waistcoat fronts, to reveal circumstantial evidence with regard to linen collars. Such negligence of apparel had ceased to be any part of Mr. Dobb’s policy.

Wherever the calls of his profession might lead him abroad after dinner, either to auction sales or to visits for private appraisement, to interviews for preliminary negotiation or merely to casual scoutings for opportunities of profit, Mr. Dobb’s aim was to appear fresh and impeccably groomed and, as far as possible, aristocratic. Careful study of toilet and deportment, he was convinced, must inevitably bring him the pleasing reputation of being a leader of fashion, and, furthermore, could not but impress people with the desirability of dealing with so distinguished a person when they had rickety sofas and deficient clocks and old ironmongery to sell.

And so Mr. Dobb was sauntering forth in all his accustomed splendour. Upon his sleekly anointed hair there rested a soft felt hat of exceeding plushiness, with a tuft of strange feathers thrust into its band to hint at sporting prowess. A very high and very stiff collar encircled Mr. Dobb’s throat, and upon a necktie of cheerful patterning there was pillowed a scarfpin conspicuously, like the headlight upon a locomotive. A shaggy tweed suit, of a hue which far o’erleapt snuff and only narrowly missed mustard, graced Mr. Dobb’s frame, and his feet were encased in orange-coloured boots of a squeakiness surely without parallel.

And when the eye had become inured to these glories, returning powers of vision brought apprehension of a silver-mounted cane, of a buttonhole of geranium blooms, of a cigar, and a festooning watch-chain, and of the phenomena of tan gloves, not worn on the hands, but carried carelessly, as though their presence were due to a merest afterthought on the part of lazy luxury.

And thus, as it were, glossed and burnished and intensified, Mr. Dobb progressed down Fore Street. One hand jauntily twirled the cane, the other hand not only had the distinction of flourishing the gloves in airy greeting of such neighbours as Mr. Dobb insisted should see him, but also was called on, from time to time, to assist in making great play with the cigar, a duty which it performed with many graceful twirls of the wrist.

And thus did Mr. Dobb arrive at the corner where Fore Street joins Bridge Street, and here he paused to gaze up and down the road. A fine sense of dominance permeated Mr. Dobb as he stood there, and the expression with which he viewed the amenities of the place was one nicely calculated to hover midway between languid interest and patrician disdain.

And then, as an ancient ewer may be rare and valuable ware in one moment and, in the next, be but so much broken crockery, so in a twinkling was Mr. Dobb transformed from a proud autocrat to a quaking fugitive.

Gone was all trace of hauteur from his face, vanished completely was all swaggering complacency of manner. There was a hunted look in his eyes, and he had become limp and drooping and manifestly unstable at the knees.

And the whole change had happened in that trice which is occupied by the clash of two pairs of eyes meeting each other in a glance of recognition across a narrow thoroughfare.

“’Strewth!” breathed Mr. Dobb, aghast, and made a convulsive, clutching movement towards his hat, but checked his arm halfway. “’Strewth!” he said again, but even more emphatically; and then spun round on his heel and began to retrace his way along Fore Street at a pace in marked contrast to his previous gait.

Regardless of the ill-concealed amazement of acquaintances, Mr. Dobb cantered wildly adown the pavement until he reached his abode, and here he breathlessly flung himself through the doorway, locking the portal behind him in a manner which clearly indicated panic. Mrs. Dobb, appearing in surprise from the back parlour, addressed a very natural question to her husband.

“Why—” he began, and then stopped and stared at his wife as though the situation had suddenly unfolded itself to exhibit a further cause for consternation.