In some of the isles of the Pacific, I have been told, it is not
uncommon for a spider, while in the act of seizing and sucking the
heart’s blood of a tender and juicy fly, to be himself pounced upon
by a larger insect peculiar to the clime, having as keen a zest for
raw spider as the spider has for fresh fly. Nature repeats itself
in all its grades and conditions. Human spiders abound among my
“bairns,” but then fortunately the spider-devourer occasionally crops
up in the same class.
In passing through one of the fashionable crescents down in the New
Town, one day about noon, on some business which admitted of little
delay, I was a little surprised to see one of the most cunning rogues
within my ken ascend the steps of a big main-door house, and ring the
bell as coolly as if the residence had been his own. Peter Hart was
an exceedingly cautious rascal who could never be caught napping,
or booked for anything like the sentence he deserved, from the fact
that he never personally conducted any operation which he could
conveniently transfer to a “cat’s paw.”
That was the man whom I saw ascend the steps of that fine residence.
What was the villain after there? My business was urgent, but the
effrontery of the knave pointed so clearly to some carefully-planned
crime that I instinctively slackened my pace to watch if he should
enter the house. Unfortunately I had been almost upon him before
aware of his identity, and these quiet crescents are almost deserted
by day, so there was no opportunity for concealment before his quick
eyes, ever on the alert, had turned round and taken in the position
at a glance. Peter’s impression probably was, that I had been
following him all the way from his house in James’ Square. He might
have known me better. Had the meeting been anything but a purely
accidental one, I should never have allowed him to get a glimpse of
me, more especially at that critical moment.
I fully expected Peter to cave in at the first glimpse of me, and
slink off from the house at his smartest; but, to my surprise, he
only bestowed upon me a patronising wink and a confident grin, and
stood still to await the answering of his ring. His coolness did
not seem to me that of sheer impudence or audacity. It seemed to be
boastful and exultant—as much as if he had said, “Ah, Jamie, what a
lot of trouble you have had for nothing. Here I am safe from you;
just try me and see.”
There was something irritating in the challenge, although it was
given only by a look, and, in spite of my anxiety to get away, I
determined to wait a little, and possibly do the very thing he defied
me to attempt. I therefore only passed on slowly, far enough to hear
the door opened, then I turned, never expecting to see him admitted.
The cunning rascal was watching me all the time, and possibly
guessing my thoughts, for when I looked round he was being admitted
by the smart servant maid, and in the act of disappearing favoured me
with another exulting grin and wink, which said as plainly as words
could have done, “Sold for once, Jamie.”
I did not believe it, and determined to let all other business
stand that I might see the end of this adventure. With this object
I loitered about, never within sight of the windows of the house,
yet always having my eyes on the front door till Peter reappeared.
There was no name on the door of the house he had entered, but by
questioning a servant who passed I learned that the occupant or owner
was an independent gentleman named Matthew Bannister, who had taken
some degrees at college, and was a kind of _savant_ in his way,
having published some works on chemistry. The gentleman was well
known to me by reputation, and the moment his name was mentioned I
decided that Peter Hart’s visit to the house could have no connection
with him. Mr Bannister had a young and beautiful wife, who had
bestowed not only herself and her love upon the somewhat elderly
gentleman, but a fortune as well; but she came of a high family, and
I as emphatically decided that Peter’s visit could have no connection
with her. There then remained only the servants, and, knowing Peter’s
reputation and his modes of working, I quickly decided that he was
in collusion with some of them, and working out some scheme entirely
unknown to their employers.
Peter did not remain long in the house—possibly ten minutes at the
most; and when he did appear I thought best to be out of sight. To
my surprise he had no bundle or trace of one about him: nor did
his person appear more bulky than when he had entered. He looked
carefully around in every direction—for me, of course—and, apparently
slightly relieved at seeing no one, started off in the direction he
had come. He made his way by Broughton Street to Greenside, where he
entered a favourite public-house. Not two minutes later the pot-boy
came out with something like a bank note in his hand, and, knowing
the boy well, I stopped to make inquiries for Peter.
“Where are you running to now?” I carelessly asked, not wishing to be
too sudden in my questions.
“To get change for a £5 note,” he smartly answered, with a peculiar
wink, at the same time opening the crisp note for my inspection.
“We’ve lots of change, but it’s aye safer to try a big note outside.”