DRAWING COVER.
It was part of the crafty policy of the tall-hatted Mr. Griffiths to
keep his employer Mr. Effingham in good humour, and to show that he
was worth seeing occasionally; and it was with this end in view that
Mr. Griffiths had spoken so confidently of Mr. Lyons's undoubted
knowledge of the whereabouts of the forged bill and of his
(Griffiths's) intention of seeking an immediate interview with Lyons.
But, in sober truth, Mr. Griffiths merely had a faint notion that
Lyons, from his previous connection with Tony Butler and his general
acquaintance with the shady transactions of the deceased, might
possibly give a guess as to the hands in which the bill then was,
while he had not the remotest idea where to find the redoubtable Mr.
Lyons himself, with a view to obtain from him the necessary
information.
For Mr. Lyons, as is the case with many gentlemen of his persuasion,
did not confine his energies to the exercise of one calling, but
dabbled in a great many. To some men he was known as a jeweller and
diamond-merchant; to others as an importer of French clocks, whistling
bullfinches, and German mustard; to some he was known in connection
with the discounting of stamped paper; to others as a picture-dealer,
a cigar-merchant, a vendor of _objets d'art_ of a very peculiar kind.
He had no residence--that is to say, he had a great many, but none
particularly tangible or satisfactory. He would write to you dating
from a number in Clement's Inn; and when you called there, you would
find the name of Mr. Glubb over the door, with a painted square of tin
by the letter-slit announcing that Mr. Glubb had removed to Great
Decorum Street, and that letters for him were to be left with the
porter; and lower still you would find a dirty scrap of paper, with
"M. Lyons" faintly traced upon it; and on the door being opened,
you would find M. Lyons in a room with one chair, one table, a
blotting-pad, pen and ink, and a cheque-book. He was in the habit of
making appointments at coffee-houses and taverns; and when he sent the
clocks or the bullfinches, the cigars or the _objets d'art_, to their
purchasers, they arrived at night, being left at the door by
mysterious boys, to whom they had been given, with the address and
twopence, by a man whom they had never seen before, but who was just
round the corner. There was, it was said, one permanent address which
Mr. Lyons had kept up for a great number of years; but this was known
only to those with whom in their relation with Mr. Lyons a melting-pot
was associated, and these were very few in number.
Mr. Griffiths was getting desperate, for the last half-crown out of
the ten pounds lay in his pocket, and his principal Mr. Effingham had
already spoken to him rather sharply on the matter. He had been to all
Mr. Lyons's known haunts; he had spoken to a dozen people who were
known to be of his intimates; but he could obtain no tidings of him.
Some thought he might be at Amsterdam, where the diamond-sale was
going on; others had heard him mention his intention of visiting
Frankfort about that period; some laughed, and wondered whether old
Malachi had heard of the plate-robbery, "thalvers ath big round ath a
cart-veel, and thpoonth, all new, not a bit rubbed!" which had lately
taken place. But no one could give any precise information. And time
was going on, and Mr. Effingham's patience and Mr. Griffiths's stock
of ready-money were rapidly becoming exhausted.
One night, going into "Johnson's" as usual, Mr. Griffiths saw his
principal seated at one of the tables, and not caring to confront him
just then, was about quietly withdrawing as much of his tall hat as he
had already protruded through the swing-door, when he was espied and
called to by Mr. Effingham.
"Come in, there; don't think I didn't see you, because I did. What a
slimy cove you are, Griffiths!--that's what I complain of; nothing
fair and above-board in you."
"Who's to be fair and above-board," growled Mr. Griffiths, "if they're
to be everlastingly growled at and badgered? What I come here for is
to be quiet and 'ave a little peace, not to be worritted and downed
upon. D'rectly I see you sittin' here, I knowed it'd be, 'Well, and
wot's up?' and 'Ain't you got no news?' and 'Wot a feller you are, not
to 'ave learned somethink!' so, as I didn't seem to care about that, I
was goin' away agen."
"Poor feller," said Mr. Effingham with great contempt, "don't like
being worried or having to work for your livin', don't you? I wonder
you didn't get yourself a government berth, where pokin' the fire and
whistlin' tunes is what they do when they're there, which is only the
three winter months of the year. So you've brought no news?"
"Not a stiver, not a ha'porth, not a blessed word. There, you may as
well take it all at once!" said Griffiths in desperation.
"And you've been everywhere likely?"
"Everywhere,--in every gaff and crib where there was the least chance
of hearin' of the old boy; but not a word."
"Now you see what a thing luck is," said Mr. Effingham sententiously;
"I believe that old City cove who said he couldn't afford to know an
unlucky man was right after all; and I'm not at all sure I'm right,
Master Griffiths, in not dropping your acquaintance, for certingly
you're an unlucky buffer, if ever there was one."
"Well, p'raps I am, D'Ossay," said Griffiths, who began to see how the
land lay; "perhaps I am in some things; but it ain't only luck,--I'm
as lucky as most of 'em; but it's the talent as does it--the talent;
and there's none of us has got that like you, D'Ossay, my boy."
"Well, luck or talent, or whatever it is," said Effingham, pulling the
bell, "it helps me on.--Bring some brandy and hot water here.--I come
in here to have a mouthful o' bread and cheese and a glass o' ale
about two this afternoon, and Pollock was in here; Jack Pollock they
call him,--the fellow that writes the plays, you know."
Mr. Griffiths, over his first gulp of brandy-and-water, nodded his
head in acquiescence.
"Things is going on rather bad at the Garden," continued Mr.
Effingham; "I don't know whether you've heard. Their pantomime's been
a reg'lar failure this year, and Wuff's paper's beginning to fly
again. I suppose old Lyons is in that swim, for Pollock says to me,
'Didn't I hear you askin' after Mr. Lyons?' he says. 'I did,' I says.
'I thought so,' he says; 'and I told him so when I saw him just now in
Wuff's room at the Garden. And he says, "I've just come back from
abroad, and I don't reckleckt Mr. Effingham's name," he says; "but if
he's one of the right sort, he'll find me among the lemons on Sunday
morning."' So I thanked Pollock, and winked my eye, and nodded my
head, and made believe as though I knew all about it; but I don't."
"You don't?"
"Not a bit of it; I'm as far off as ever, save for knowing that the
old man's in England."
"You ain't fly to what's meant by 'among the lemons,' eh?"
"Not a bit of it, I tell you. What are you grinning and chuckling away
at there, Griffiths? That's one of your disgustin' ways,--crowin' over
me because you know something which I don't."
"Don't be riled, D'Ossay; don't be riled, old feller. It's so seldom
that I get a chance of findin' anything that you don't know, young
though you are, that I make the most of it, I confess."
"Well, there, all right. Now do you know what he meant by 'among the
lemons'?"
"Of course I do."
"And what does it mean?"
"'Among the lemons' is magsman's patter for 'Houndsditch.' There's a
reg'lar gatherin' of sheenies there every Sunday mornin', where they
have a kind of fair, and sellin' all sorts of things,--clothes, and
books, and pictures, and so on."
"Well, but old Lyons is a cut above all that sort of thing."
"I should think he was."
"He wouldn't be found there."
"Well, not sellin' anything; but he might be on the lookout for some
magsmen as work for him, and who may have had the office to be about
there. But if he's not there, I'd know where to lay hands on him, I'd
take my oath."
"Where's that?"
"At the Net of Lemons, a public where sheenies of all
kinds--diamond-merchants, fences, all sorts--meet on the Sunday."
"Do you know the place?"
"Know it! I should think so, and Mr. Eliason as keeps it; as
respectable an old gent as walks."
"They'd let you in?"
"Ah, and you too, if I squared it for you."
"Very well, then; we'll hunt up old Lyons on Sunday morning."
Mr. Effingham was so pleased with his chance of success, that Mr.
Griffiths thought he might borrow half-a-sovereign; and what is more,
he got it.
On the following Sunday morning Mr. Effingham found himself by
appointment opposite Bishopgate Church as the clock struck ten, and
Mr. Griffiths there waiting for him. As he approached, Mr. Effingham
took stock of his friend's personal appearance, and mentally
congratulated himself that it was at the East and not at the West end
of London that they were to be seen in company together; for those
mysterious means by which Mr. Griffiths went through "the fever called
living" had not been very productive of late, and his wardrobe was
decidedly seedy. The tall hat shone so as to give one the idea that
its owner had forgotten to remove it when he applied the morning
macassar to his hair, and the suit of once-black clothes looked as if
they had been bees-waxed. Mr. Effingham must have allowed his thoughts
to be mirrored in his expressive countenance, for Mr. Griffiths said
as he joined him:
"Looking at my togs, D'Ossay? Well, they ain't as nobby as yours; but
you see, I don't go in to be a 'eavy swell. They'll do well enough for
the caper we're on to-day, though; better perhaps than your gridironed
kickseys."
At another time Mr. Effingham might have shown annoyance at thus
having his check trousers sneeringly spoken of; but something which
Griffiths had said had rather dashed him, and it was with a little
hesitation that he asked:
"They--they ain't a very rough lot that we're going amongst, are
they?"
"Well, there's more rough nor smooth hair among 'em; but they won't do
you no harm; I'll look after you, D'Ossay. Shovin you won't mind, nor
elbers in every part of your body at once. Oh, and I say, don't leave
any-think in your 'ind-pockets, and put your fogle in your 'at. Like
this, look. I carry most things in my 'at."
And Mr. Griffiths whipped off the tall hat, and showed in it a
handkerchief, a greasy parcel suspiciously like a ham sandwich, a
pocket comb, and a paper book with the title "The Olio of Oddities, or
the Warbling Wagoner's Wallet of Wit and Wisdom."
Mr. Effingham took his friend's advice, and transferred all his
portable property from the tail-pockets of his coat to other less
patent recesses, and the pair started on their excursion.
Crossing Bishopgate, and turning short round to the right up a street
called Sandy's Row, past a huge black block of buildings belonging to
the East India Company, and used as a store-house for costly silks,
round which seethed and bubbled a dirty, pushing, striving, fighting,
higgling, chaffering, vociferating, laughing mob, filling up the
narrow street, the small strips of pavement on either side, and what
ought to have been the carriage-way between them. It was Sunday, and
may have been observed "as such" elsewhere, but certainly not in
Sandy's Row or Cutler's Row. There were shops of all kinds, and all at
work: tool-shops,--files, saws, adzes, knives, chisels, hammers, and
tool-baskets displayed in the open windows, whence the sashes had been
removed for the better furtherance of trade; hatters', hosiers',
tailors', bootmakers' shops, the proprietors of which had left the
calm asylum of their counters and stood at the doors, importuning the
passers-by with familiar blandishments; for in the carriage-way
through which Effingham and Griffiths slowly forced a passage, were
peripatetic vendors of hats, hosiery, clothes, and boots,--hook-nosed
oleaginous gentry with ten pairs of trousers over one arm, and five
coats over the other, with enormous boots, a few hats, and a number of
cloth caps. Mr. Effingham soon learned the value of his friend's
advice, for there were thieves of all kinds in the motley crowd; big
burly roughs, with sunken eyes and massive jaws, sulkily elbowing
their way through the mass, and "gonophs" or pickpockets of fourteen
or fifteen, with their collarless tightly-tied neckerchief, their
greasy caps, and "aggerawater" curls. Delicate attention was paid to
Mr. Effingham before he had been five minutes amongst them. The
hind-pockets of his coat were turned inside out, and he was "sounded"
all over by a pair of lightly-touching hands. Whether Mr. Griffiths
was known, or whether his personal appearance was unattractive and
promised no hope of adequate reward, is uncertain; but no attempt was
made on him.
While Mr. Effingham was vaguely gaping about him, staring at
everything and thoroughly impressed with the novelty of his situation,
Griffiths had been taking stock of the crowd, and keeping a strict
lookout for Mr. Lyons. Jews were there in shoals, and of all kinds:
the grand old Jewish type, dignified and bearded, than which, when
good, there is nothing better; handsome sensual-looking men, with
bright eyes, and hook-noses, and scarlet lips; red frizzy-headed Jews,
with red eyelids, and shambling gait, and nasal intonation; big
flat-headed, stupid-looking men, with thick lips, and tongues too
large for their mouths, and visibly protruding therefrom;--all kinds
of Jews, but Mr. Lyons not among them.
So they pushed on, uncaring for the chaff of the mob, which was very
facetious on the subject of Mr. Effingham's attire, saluting him as a
"collared bloke," in delicate compliment to his wearing a clean shirt;
asking whether he was a "Rooshan;" whether he were not "Prince
Halbut's brother," and other delicate compliments,--pushed on until
they arrived at the Clothes-Exchange, a roofed building filled round
every side and in the centre with old-clothes stalls. Here, piled up
in wondrous confusion, lay hats, coats, boots, hob-nailed shoes, satin
ball-shoes, driving-coats, satin dresses, hoops, brocaded gowns,
flannel jackets, fans, shirts, stockings with clocks, stockings with
torn and darned feet, feathers, parasols, black-silk mantles, blue-kid
boots, belcher neckerchiefs, and lace ruffles. More Jews here;
salesmen shrieking out laudations of their wares, and frantically
imploring passers-by to come in and be fitted: "Here'th a coat! plue
Vitney; trai this plue Vitney, ma tear." "Here'th a vethkit for you,
thir!" shouted one man to Effingham; "thuch a vethkit! a thplendid
vethkit, covered all over with blue-and-thilver thpright." Mr.
Effingham cast a longing eye at this gorgeous garment, but passed on.
No Lyons here, either among sharp-eyed vendors or leering buyers. Mr.
Griffiths was getting nonplussed, and Mr. Effingham growing anxious.
"We must find him, Griffiths," he said; "we must not throw away this
chance that he's given us; he may be off to the Continent, Lord knows
where, to-morrow. Why the devil don't you find him?"
Mr. Griffiths intimated that so far as eye-straining could be gone
through, he had done his best; and suggested that if the man they
sought were not there, all the energy in the world would not discover
him. "But there's the Net of Lemons yet," he said; "that's, after all,
the safest draw, and we're more likely to hit upon him there than
anywhere else."
So they pushed their way through the steaming, seething, struggling
crowd, and found themselves in a quiet dull little square. Across
this, and merely glancing at several groups of men dotted here and
there in its midst, loudly talking and gesticulating with energy which
smacked more of the Hamburg Börsenhalle or the Frankfort Zeil than the
stolid reticence of England, Mr. Griffiths led his companion until
they stopped before the closed door of a public house, aloft from
which swung the sign of "The Net of Lemons." At the door Mr. Griffiths
gave three mystic raps, at the third of which the door opened for
about a couple of inches, and a thick voice said, "Who is it?"
"All right, Mr. Eliason. Griffiths, whom you know. Take a squint, and
judge for yourself."
Mr. Eliason probably followed this advice, and finding the inspection
satisfactory, opened the door to its extent, and admitted the pair;
but raising his bushy brows in doubt as to Mr. Effingham, Griffiths
said, "A friend of mine--come on partickler business, and by
appointment with Mr. Lyons. Is he here?"
The reference was apparently satisfactory, for Mr. Eliason, a fat
good-looking big man in a soft wideawake hat, said, "You'll find him
inside;" and shut the door behind them.
Mr. Effingham walking through, and following his conductor, found
himself in a low-roofed, square-built, comfortable room, round three
sides of which were ranged tables, and on these tables were placed
large open trays of jewelry. There they lay in clusters, thick gold
chains curled round and round like snares; long limp silver chains
such as are worn by respectable mechanics over black-satin waistcoats
on Sundays; great carbuncle pins glowing out of green-velvet cases;
diamond rings and pins and brooches and necklaces. The best emeralds
in quaint old-fashioned gold settings nestled by the side of lovely
pale opals; big finger-rings made up after the antique with cut
cornelian centrepieces; long old-fashioned earrings; little heaps of
rubies, emeralds, and turquoises set aside in the corners of the
trays; big gold and silver cups and goblets and trays and tazzas; here
and there a clumsy old epergne; finger-rings by the bushel, pins by
the gross; watches of all kinds, from delicate gold Genevas to the
thick turnipy silver "ticker" of the schoolboy; and shoals of
watchworks without cases. On this Tom Tidler's ground were crowds of
customers, smoking strong cigars, walking about without let or
hindrance, and examining--ay, and handling--the jewels without
creating the least consternation in the breasts of their vendors.
There was a slight movement among the company at the entrance of the
new-comers; but Griffiths seemed to be known to a few, with whom he
exchanged salutations, and the appearance of Mr. Eliason with them
settled any wandering doubts which might have arisen in the minds of
the others. As for Mr. Effingham, he began to think he was in the cave
into which Aladdin descended to get the lamp at the bidding of the
magician; and he went moving round, gazing first on one side, then on
the other, lost in wonder. But Mr. Griffiths, to whom the scene was
tolerably familiar, went at once to business, scrutinizing with keen
glance the buyers and sellers, poking his nose into the groups of
domino-players in the corners, hunting about with admirable patience
and forbearance, but for a long time with no result.
At last he stopped before a group of three. One of these was an old
Jewish gentleman, with strongly-marked features, overhanging bushy
eyebrows, hooked nose, and long white beard. He held in his hand a
blue paper, such as generally contains seidlitz-powders, but its
contents were diamonds. These were being carefully inspected by the
other two men, each of whom had a bright steel pair of pincers, with
which he selected a specimen from the glittering heap, breathed upon
it, watched it carefully, and in most instances finally laid it on one
side for purchase. When this transaction had been gone through and was
at an end, the old gentleman folded up his paper with such diamonds as
remained in it, placed it in his waistcoat-pocket, and was calmly
walking away, when Griffiths touched him on the arm, saying
interrogatively, "Mr. Lyons?"
The old man turned in an instant, and threw a sharp look of inquiry
over his interlocutor, as he said: "Yes, ma tear sir, that's mai name;
not ashamed to own it any veres. Vot might you vant with me?" As he
spoke he had covered his waistcoat-pocket with his hand, and stood
prim and spry.
"This gentleman--Mr. Effingham--has been looking for you some little
time. You told a friend of his--Mr. Pollock--that you would be here
to-day, and we've come on purpose to meet you."
"Effingham! Pollock!" said the old man, musing. "O yes, Pollock, who
writes those funny burlesques for my friend Wuff; O yes--Effingham,"
he said. "How do you do, ma tear? Now vot is it? A leetle advance, or
something you've got that you don't know how to get rid of, and think
I might fancy it, eh?"
"Well, it ain't either, Mr. Lyons," said Effingham. "Its a little
information you're in possession of that you might be inclined to give
us, and--"
"You're not traps?" asked Mr. Lyons, turning pale.
"Not a bit of it, Mr. Lyons," said Griffiths, striking into the
conversation. "Quite different from that. You and I have done business
before. I was with--" and here he whispered into Lyons's ear.
"Ah, I reckleckt," said the old gentleman. "That vos a very good
plant, and bothers them all in Scotland Yard to this day. Ha, ha! I
reckleckt. Now vot did your friend say? Information? Veil, you know, I
never _give_ information."
"No, no, of course not," said Griffiths, winking at Effingham.
"O no, sir," said that worthy. "I'm prepared to pay, of course,
anything reasonable for what I require."
"Vell, vell, ma tear, let's know vot it is."
"You were great pals with my brother, I believe?"
"No. Effingham? No;--never heard the name."
"No, no; not Effingham. That's merely--you understand?"
"O ah! O yes! I qvite understand; but vot _is_ the name?"
"Butler! You knew Tony Butler well?"
"Knew him vell; I should rather think I did. A good fellow; a clever
fellow; oh, a very clever fellow, ma tear."
"Yes; well, I'm his brother."
"Not like him," said Mr. Lyons. "More dressy, and not so
business-like. A rare fellow for business, Tony."
"That may or may not be," said Effingham, slightly offended. "Now,
when he died, you cleared off his traps."
"Only a few sticks; very poor sticks. Ah, ma tear, vot I lost by that
transaction! Vy, there vosn't enough to clear me in a sixth part of
vot I'd advanced to Tony."
"Well, I'm not here to enter into that--that was your lookout. But
amongst what you took away there was a desk."
"Vos there? 'Pon my soul I can't reckleckt; not that I'm goin' to
gainsay you. Vos there a desk, now?"
"And in it," continued Effingham, not seeming to heed him, "there was
an overdue bill for twenty-five pounds accepted by Walter Burgess."
"Lord now! Vos there indeed?"
"Look here, Mr. Lyons. If you don't know anything, all right. We won't
waste our time or our money, but we'll go to those who can help us."
"Vot a headstrong boy it is! Who said I couldn't help you? Go on
now,--a bill accepted by Walter Burgess?"
"Exactly. Now that bill's no use to any one, and we want you to give
it to us."
"Ha, ha! clever boys, clever boys! Vot large-hearted fellows too, to
want to buy a bill that ain't of any use to any vun! O, vot generous
boys!"
"It's no use, Griffiths," said Effingham angrily; "he either don't
know or won't say anything about it."
"Steady," said Griffiths. "Come, Mr. Lyons, say you've got the stiff,
and name your price."
"Accepted by Walter Burgess, eh?" said the old gentleman; "yes, I
reckleckt that bill; O yes, I reckleckt him."
"Well now, bring your recklecktion into something practical, and
I'll give you this for that bill," said Mr. Effingham, producing a
five-pound note.
The old Jew's eyes glistened at the sight of the money; and then his
face fell, and he looked horribly disappointed.
"You should have it for that," said he; "you should have it for that,
and velcome; only there's vun little reason vy I can't make it over to
you."
"What's that?" cried Effingham.
"Vell, it's a strong reason, as you'll allow ven I tell it to you. I
can't let you have the bill, because--because I haven't got it
myself."
Mr. Effingham swore a sharp oath, and even Mr. Griffiths looked
disconcerted.
"Come along," said the former,--"we've wasted time enough with the
pottering old fool, who's only selling us, and--"
"Vait a minute," said Mr. Lyons, laying his hand on the other's
arm,--"vait a minute, ma tear. Though I haven't got the leetle bill
myself, perhaps I know who has."
"That's likely enough," said Griffiths, "well, who has?"
"Ah, that's tellings, ma tear. I shall vant--just a leetle something
to say."
"I'll give this," said Effingham, producing a sovereign.
"Vell, it ain't enough; but you're such headstrong fellows. There!"
said Mr. Lyons, slipping it into his pocket; "now do either of you
know a gal who was under Tony Butler's thumb at vun time, but who
hated him mortal, and vos very sveet on vun of Tony's friends?"
"I do!" cried Griffiths; "Lizzie Ponsford."
"That's the same; a fine gal too, a reg'lar fine gal. Vell, I'd no
sooner got Tony's traps over at my place than that gal comes to me,
and she says, 'You've got a desk that b'longed to Tony Butler,' she
says. And ven I says 'yes,' she offered me a pound for it. It vosn't
vuth five shillings; so I knew there vos something in it she vanted,
though I'd hunted it through and found nothin' but old diaries and
memorandums and such-like. 'I von't sell it,' I says. 'May I look at
it?' she says. 'You may,' I says; and vith that I fetched it down; and
ven she see it, she touched a spring, and out flew a secret drawer
vith this bill in it. 'Hands off,' I says, for she vos going to clutch
it at vunce. 'Let me have it,' she says; 'I'll pay for it.' So I
looked at it, and saw it had been overdue eighteen months, and
reckleckted hearin' it was all wrong; so I says, 'Vot'll you give?' 'A
sovereign,' she says. 'Make it two, and it's yours,' I says. So, after
a little, she give me two skivs, and she took the bill and valked away
vith it."
Mr. Effingham looked at Griffiths, and the latter returned the glance.
"It would be almost worth another crown to know if these are lies you
are telling us, old gentleman," said the former; "but it sounds
something like truth. Now one question more. Where is Lizzie
Ponsford?"
"Ah, that beats me. A reg'lar clever gal; nice-looking and reg'lar
clever. I'd have given something to find out myself; but it vos all of
no use. She vent avay from all the old haunts, and hasn't been heard
of for a long time. I've all sorts of people about, and they'd tell
me, bless you, if she'd ever show'd up. But she's gone, and no vun can
find her."
"Very good," said Effingham; "now you take this commission from me. If
you hear of her within the next month, and can let me know where she
is, find out Griffiths at Johnson's, and it'll be a fiver in your
pocket. You understand?"
Mr. Lyons made no verbal reply, but struck his forefinger against his
nose and looked preternaturally sagacious.
"All right! now goodbye;" they shook hands and parted.
When they got into the street again Mr. Effingham said, "So Lizzie
Ponsford has the bill. What the deuce made her want it? unless some
day to revenge herself on Mitford. But she's not likely to have heard
of his having turned up such trumps. Now, Mr. Griffiths, our pursuit
begins again. Lizzie Ponsford has that bill. Your business and mine is
to find out Lizzie Ponsford, and by some means or other--no matter
what--get that bill from her."