the place as never sleeping in a bed. His clothes, which had once been black, were of a greenish hue, from long exposure to the weather, and were fastened together, in the more necessary places, by pins and scraps of string. His face, long and thin and cadaverous, had upon it, besides its native dirt, a week’s growth of beard and moustache; his hair—thin almost to baldness on the top—hung long about his ears, and was rolled inwards at the ends, in the fashion of some thirty years ago.

Crowdy, after eyeing this man for a few moments in silence, grunted something inaudible, and took up the paper again.

“No offence, Dandy,” said the man, somewhat more humbly, and in the same hoarse whisper as before. “Seed yer outside—an’ came in arter yer. Agin the rules—an’ well I knows it; but there ain’t no one ’ere to twig us—is there?”

“Well—what of that?” asked the other, taking his cue from the fellow’s humility. “Can’t you let a man alone, even at this hour? What the devil do you want now?”

“Don’t be so ’asty, Dandy,” replied the man, in an injured tone. “It ain’t for me ter say anyfink agin the Count—’cos ’e’s your pal. But you’re young at this game, Dandy, and the Count is a bit too fly. If you wants a fren’, as ’ll be a fren’, don’t fergit the Shady ’un—will yer?” This last very insinuatingly.

“Oh—so you’re the Shady ’un—are you?” thought Crowdy. Aloud he said—“Thanks—I can take care of myself.”

“Ah—you wos always ’igh an’ mighty—you wos,” replied the other, with a propitiatory smile. “It ain’t fer me ter say anyfink agin the Count—on’y ’e’s a deep ’un, that’s all. An’ ’e’s got some new move on; ’e was a stickin’ like wax to you to-night—yer know ’e wos.”

Philip Crowdy caught his breath. Here, surely, was some faint clue at last; for it was possible that the man who had been “sticking like wax” to the unfortunate Dandy Chater that night, might have stuck to him to the very last, down by the river’s muddy brink. Crowdy was breathlessly silent, waiting for more; he left his meal untouched, where it had been placed, and kept his eyes narrowly on his neighbour.

But that neighbour had evidently made up his mind to say nothing more; after a pause, he shuffled to his feet, and started to leave the place. As he neared the door, however, he came back again, and bent his face down to Crowdy’s ear.

“I say—yer won’t fergit Toosday—will yer?”

 Prev. P 14/191 next