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."
"Sergeant Falkner," said the old man, piteously, "you are not a father,
or you would not speak like that."
"Ain't I, by Jove, sir!" cried the sergeant, heartily; "I've got ten
already, and goodness knows how many more to come. I've had
butcher-and-baker on-the-brain any time this ten years, sir; let alone
boots. But I beg your pardon, Sir Francis; I won't say another word.
Here, you, Screwby, go and sit in that chair," and he pointed to the one
farthest from the door. Then, walking across with the man, he to a
certain extent seemed to seat him in the chair, the great hulking rascal
being like so much plastic clay in his hands.
The next moment Sergeant Falkner was at the low window, which he threw
open, and stepped out upon the balcony, but in an instant he came back--
very hastily back--into the room, and hurried to the door, which he
opened, to take the key from the outside and carefully lock it from
within--the key being afterwards placed in his pocket.
A few seconds more, and, to the surprise of Sir Francis and Clayton, he
was again in the balcony, where he uttered a low cough.
There was a pause of a few moments, when he stooped over, and leaning
down, spoke to some one beneath.
Apparently satisfied, he re-entered the room, closed the window,
unlocked the door, and began to walk up and down thoughtfully, tapping
his teeth the while with the end of his pencil.
"For what are we waiting, sergeant?" said Sir Francis, anxiously.
"Cab, sir," said the officer, curtly; "and here it is. After you,
gentlemen!"
As he spoke, there was the sound of wheels grating against the kerb
below; and a few minutes after the party was rattling through the
streets, but only to stop before long at a quiet-looking office.
Springing out, the sergeant signed to a policeman, who seemed to be
there by accident, but all the same was ready to take his place by the
cab-door, adding nothing to the ease and comfort of Mr John Screwby, who
was quite as fidgety when, after a few minutes, the sergeant returned,
gave a few instructions to the driver, and they were once more rattling
through the gas-lit streets.
"Rather a tight fit, gentlemen," said the sergeant, "four in one of
these cabs; but it won't be for long."
In effect, sooner than Clayton anticipated, the cab stopped and the
sergeant again sprang out.
"Now, gentlemen," he said, "perhaps you'll have the goodness to follow
at a little distance. It's two streets off yet; but in this extremely
pleasant and salubrious region, we don't want to make any fuss. My dear
friend Mr John Screwby and I will go on together, so as to show the way.
You need not be afraid," he whispered to Clayton. "Keep tight hold of
the old gentleman's arm, and bring him along quickly. There's plenty of
help close at hand."
Clayton nodded, and then, as he drew the baronet's arm through his own,
he hastily glanced round to see once more the thronging types of misery
and vice that he had encountered on his previous visits: there were the
same hulking ruffians, short of hair, sallow of face, and low of brow--
own brothers in aspect of the gentleman who had turned informer; there,
too, were the same slatternly women, old and young; children who never
seemed to have been young; and at nearly every corner the gin-palace in
full levee, its courtiers thronging in and out as the doors swung to and
fro.
Harry read this at a glance, and then followed the sergeant through the
crowded streets, attracting as little notice as was possible; but from
time to time the young man could see that some ruffianly head or another
was turned to gaze after Screwby and his companion; intelligent nods and
winks, too, were passed from one observer to another, and once Harry
heard the whispered words--
"What's up?"
No one seemed to care, though, to follow figures that were evidently
well-known, and so great was the attention bestowed upon them, that
little, so far as he could see, fell to the share of Sir Francis and
himself.
They soon reached the shop of Mr D. Wragg, the shutters of which natural
history emporium were up, but both side and shop doors were wide open,
closing after them, though, by invisible agency, as it appeared, until
Harry turned to find that, springing as it were from that invisible
region they are said so much to affect when wanted, a couple of
policemen were at his elbow, whose duty it had doubtless been to close
the portals against the curious crowd, certain to collect as soon as it
was bruited abroad that there was "a case on" at the house of "Mr D.
Wragg, naturalist."
Volume 2, Chapter XXVI.