A Little World

But the man was apparently still far from satisfied, muttering, biting pieces out of his cap-lining, and spitting them upon the carpet, till a bright thought seemed to strike him, to which he gave birth.

“Lookye here, gents. Let’s have the money posted fair for both sides. I knows a genleman down our way as keeps a beer-shop as’d see fair, and make all square. Now, what do you say?”

What would have been said was arrested by a sudden start, or rather jump, on the part of Mr John Screwby, who, following the direction of Sir Francis’ eyes, found that another person had entered the room, and taken a place at his elbow, where he had stood for some few moments listening to the conversation.

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Four.

Screwby’s “Tip.”

Mr John Screwby’s face would have formed a worthy study for a painter; or, could some instantaneous photographer have secured his aspect, a carte could have been produced that would have made the fortune of any speculator in heads of eminent men. For, as he started away, his jaw half dropped, his eyes staring, and fists clenched, he seemed, for the moment, turned into stone – a statue gazing at the quiet unmoved intruder upon the scene.

“How do, Jack?” said the new-comer, quietly, as he took a slight glance from the corners of his eyes at the informer.

“You’re werry civil all ’twunst,” said the fellow, recovering himself a little; “but you ain’t got nothin’ agen me!”

“Not I, Jack – at least, not yet,” said the new-comer, smiling. “But what brings you here? Smelt the reward?”

The man stared, sniffed, rubbed his nose viciously upon his sleeve, and shuffled uneasily from foot to foot; but he did not answer.

“He professes to hold the required information,” said Sir Francis; “and he is afraid that we shall not duly perform our part of the contract. He is suspicious lest we should withhold part of the money – my friend here thinking that he ought first to prove the value of his tidings.”

“Of course,” said the new-comer, with a commendatory nod of the head at Clayton; “he knows what business is, evidently. Not though, that our friend Jack Screwby here would do anything but what was of the most honourable description. He’s a gent who would scorn a mean action, and as to taking advantage of anybody, there, bless your heart, you might trust him with a baby unborn.”

“None o’ your gammon, now, can’t you?” growled Jack.

“Gammon! nonsense, Jack! It’s all straightforward and above-board. You shall be all right. Now, look here – what do you know? If it’s worth the two hundred pounds, you shall have the money clean down in your fist. I’ll see that you do. Now are you satisfied?”

“Fain sweatings,” growled Mr Screwby, who was apparently far from being in as confident a state as he could have wished.

“What does he say?” exclaimed Sir Francis.

“He means, sir, that he don’t want the reward money to be fiddled.”

“Fiddled?” said Sir Francis.

“Yes, sir – thinned down, and deducted from.”

“Oh, no! let him earn the reward, and he shall have it in full,” exclaimed Sir Francis.

“To be sure,” said the new-comer. “There, Jack, do you hear? All fair and above-board. Money down as soon as the gentleman is found —by your information, mind.”

“Well, never mind about no informations,” growled Screwby; “if I find him, eh?”

“Yes, if you find the gentleman.”

“Dead or alive?” said Screwby, brutally.

“Dead or alive,” said the new-comer, turning, as did also Clayton, to glance at Sir Francis Redgrave, who was very pale, but who remained unmoved, save for the corners of his mouth, which twitched sharply.

Mr John Screwby evidently had great faith in his own powers as a reader of physiognomy, for he glanced from one to the other, and allowed his eyes to rest long upon each face; then he had a long stare at the door, and another at the window, as if meditating flight, or probably from his foxy wild-beast-like nature, which prompted him to mistrust everybody, and to have both an avenue of entrance and another for escape. Then he took another vicious rub at his nose, and refreshed himself with a nibble at his cap, off which he evidently obtained a few woolly scraps; but at last he allowed his furtive-looking eyes to rest upon the new-comer, who had been all the time thoughtfully tapping his teeth with his pencil, and apparently taking not the slightest notice of him whatever.

The fellow then prepared to speak, by hitching himself closer to the stranger, who only gave him a nod, which was interpreted to mean – “Stay where you are!”

For Mr John Screwby stood shuffling from foot to foot, and then placed his hand before his mouth, to direct the flow of his discourse only into the stranger’s ear.

“Speak out, Jack!” said the latter, coolly; “you needn’t be afraid.”

“Who’s afeard?” growled Jack, sourly.

“Oh! not you, Jack, of course,” said the other; “you’ve a heart above that sort of thing, you know.”

“You’re gallus witty, you are,” growled Jack, below his breath.

“Well, speak up, Jack; the gentlemen would like to hear what you have to say, I’m sure.”

“Look ye here, then, Master Falkner,” said Jack, in a hoarse whisper, that sounded as harsh and grating as the sharpening of a saw, – “look ye here; that there young chap’s been hanging about D. Wragg’s crib for months past.”

“To be sure he has, Jack – to be sure; we know that; and what does it mean? Pigeons, or rats, or dogs, or something of that sort, eh?”

Mr Falkner, sergeant of police, half closed his eyes as he spoke, and thrust his hands beneath his coat-tails, as, with head on one side, he waited to hear further news.

“Pigins – dorgs! Not a bit of it. He warn’t arter them,” said Screwby. “Gents like him don’t have no ’casion to come our way; ’cos why? Lots o’ dealers comes arter them, and’ll bring ’em any number o’ rats, or dorgs either, for the matter o’ that. You knows better nor that, Master Falkner. If I was to tell you as I come down here to make these here gents’ minds easy, you wouldn’t believe me, would you?”

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Jack Screwby,” said the sergeant, “no, I should not.”

“No,” said the fellow, chuckling, “in coorse you wouldn’t; and no more you don’t believe as he went down our way arter rats or dorgs.”

“Well, suppose he did not: what then?” said the sergeant.

“Don’t you hurry no man’s cattle; you may have a moke o’ your own some day,” said Screwby, with a grin. “I’m a coming to it fast, I am; so look out. Look ye here, governor,” he said in his hoarse whisper, and he craned his neck towards the impassive officer, “lars Chewsday night was a week as I see him go in theer all alone.”

“Go in where, Jack – in where?” said the sergeant, quietly, but with his eyes a little closer, his ears twitching, and every nerve evidently on the strain.

“Why, ain’t I a tellin’ on ye? – in theer!”

“To be sure, yes, of course,” said the sergeant, quietly, “in there – all right!”

“Yes,” continued Screwby, “in theer – in at D. Wragg’s; and,” continued the fellow, in deep tones, harsh, husky, and like a hoarse whisper sent through some large tube – “and he didn’t come out no more.”

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Five.

Taking up the Clue

As the rough, brutal fellow uttered those, words, accompanying them with a low cunning grin of satisfaction at his success, the walls of the room seemed to swim round before Harry Clayton’s eyes; but recovering himself, he ran to the side of Sir Francis, just as he was staggering and would have fallen.

“It’s nothing, my dear boy – nothing at all,” he gasped; “only a slight touch of faintness. Ring – a glass of wine – a little water – thanks! I am a little overdone with anxiety – a trifle unnerved. Sergeant, you will see to this directly, we will go with you.”

“Better not, sir – better not,” said the officer, bluntly; “leave it in my hands.”