Dorrington left his office late that day, and the evening being clear,
though dark, he walked toward Conduit Street by way of Soho; he thought
to take a glance at the Café des Bons Camarades on his way, without
being observed, should Jacques Bouvier be in the vicinity.
Beck Street, Soho, was a short and narrow street lying east and
west, and joining two of the larger streets that stretch north and
south across the district. It was even a trifle dirtier than these
by-streets in that quarter are wont to be. The Café des Bons Camarades
was a little green-painted shop the window whereof was backed by
muslin curtains, while upon the window itself appeared in florid
painted letters the words "Cuisine Française." It was the only shop
in the street, with the exception of a small coal and firewood shed
at one end, the other buildings consisting of the side wall of a
factory, now closed for the night, and a few tenement houses. An alley
entrance--apparently the gate of a stable-yard--stood next the café.
As Dorrington walked by the steamy window, he was startled to hear
his own name and some part of his office address spoken in excited
tones somewhere in this dark alley entrance; and suddenly a man rather
well dressed, and cramming a damaged tall hat on his head as he went,
darted from the entrance and ran in the direction from which Dorrington
had come. A stoutly built Frenchwoman, carrying on her face every
indication of extreme excitement, watched him from the gateway, and
Dorrington made no doubt that it was in her voice that he had heard
his name mentioned. He walked briskly to the end of the short street,
turned at the end, and hurried round the block of houses, in hope
to catch another sight of the man. Presently he saw him, running,
in Old Compton Street, and making in the direction of Charing Cross
Road. Dorrington mended his pace, and followed. The man emerged where
Shaftesbury Avenue meets Charing Cross Road, and, as he crossed,
hesitated once or twice, as though he thought of hailing a cab, but
decided rather to trust his own legs. He hastened through the byways
to St. Martin's Lane, and Dorrington now perceived that one side and
half the back of his coat was dripping with wet mud. Also it was plain,
as Dorrington had suspected, that his destination was Dorrington's own
office in Bedford Street. So the follower broke into a trot, and at
last came upon the muddy man wrenching at the bell and pounding at the
closed door of the house in Bedford Street, just as the housekeeper
began to turn the lock.
"M'sieu Dorrington--M'sieu Dorrington!" the man exclaimed, excitedly,
as the door was opened.
"'E's gawn 'ome long ago," the caretaker growled; "you might 'a known
that. Oh, 'ere 'e is though--good evenin', sir."
"I am Mr. Dorrington," the inquiry agent said politely. "Can I do
anything for you?"
"Ah yes--it is important--at once! I am robbed!"
"Just step upstairs, then, and tell me about it."
Dorrington had but begun to light the gas in his office when his
visitor broke out, "I am robbed, M'sieu Dorrington, robbed by my
cousin--_coquin!_ Rrrobbed of everything! Rrrobbed I tell you!"
He seemed astonished to find the other so little excited by the
intelligence.
"Let me take your coat," Dorrington said, calmly. "You've had a downer
in the mud, I see. Why, what's this?" he smelt the collar as he went
toward a hat-peg. "Chloroform!"
"Ah yes--it is that rrrascal Jacques! I will tell you. This evening I
go into the gateway next my house--Café des Bons Camarades--to enter
by the side-door, and--paf!--a shawl is fling across my face from
behind--it is pull tight--there is a knee in my back--I can catch
nothing with my hand--it smell all hot in my throat--I choke and I fall
over--there is no more. I wake up and I see my wife, and she take me
into the house. I am all muddy and tired, but I feel--and I have lost
my property--it is a diamond--and my cousin Jacques, he has done it!"
"Are you sure of that?"
"Sure? Oh yes--it is certain, I tell you--certain!"
"Then why not inform the police?"
The visitor was clearly taken aback by this question. He faltered,
and looked searchingly in Dorrington's face. "That is not always the
convenient way," he said. "I would rather that you do it. It is the
diamond that I want--not to punish my cousin--thief that he is!"
Dorrington mended a quill with ostentatious care, saying encouragingly
as he did so, "I can quite understand that you may not wish to
prosecute your cousin--only to recover the diamond you speak of. Also
I can quite understand that there may be reasons--family reasons
perhaps, perhaps others--which may render it inadvisable to make even
the existence of the jewel known more than absolutely necessary. For
instance, there may be other claimants, Monsieur Léon Bouvier."