The Complete Works of Arthur Morrison (Illustrated). Arthur Morrison

several people were about the street, when Hewitt, gripping my arm and exclaiming: “That’s our man!” started at a run after the fugitive.

      We turned the next corner and saw the man thirty yards before us, walking, and pulling up his sleeve at the shoulder, so as to conceal the rent. Plainly he felt safe from further molestation.

      “That’s Sim Wilks,” Hewitt explained, as we followed, “the ‘juce of a foine jintleman’ who got Leamy to carry his bag, and the man who knows where the Quinton ruby is, unless I am more than usually mistaken. Don’t stare after him, in case he looks round. Presently, when we get into the busier streets, I shall have a little chat with him.”

      But for some time the man kept to the back streets. In time, however, he emerged into the Buckingham Palace Road, and we saw him stop and look at a hat-shop. But after a general look over the window and a glance in at the door he went on.

      “Good sign!” observed Hewitt; “got no money with him—makes it easier for us.”

      In a little while Wilks approached a small crowd gathered about a woman fiddler. Hewitt touched my arm, and a few quick steps took us past our man and to the opposite side of the crowd. When Wilks emerged, he met us coming in the opposite direction.

“What, Sim!” burst out Hewitt with apparent delight. “I haven’t piped your mug1 for a stretch;2 I thought you’d fell.3 Where’s your cady?”4

      Wilks looked astonished and suspicious. “I don’t know you,” he said. “You’ve made a mistake.”

Hewitt laughed. “I’m glad you don’t know me,” he said. “If you don’t, I’m pretty sure the reelers5 won’t. I think I’ve faked my mug pretty well, and my clobber,6 too. Look here: I’ll stand you a new cady. Strange blokes don’t do that, eh?”

      Wilks was still suspicious. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. Then, after a pause, he added: “Who are you, then?”

Hewitt winked and screwed his face genially aside. “Hooky!” he said. “I’ve had a lucky touch7 and I’m Mr. Smith till I’ve melted the pieces.8 You come and damp it.”

      “I’m off,” Wilks replied. “Unless you’re pal enough to lend me a quid,” he added, laughing.

“I am that,” responded Hewitt, plunging his hand in his pocket. “I’m flush, my boy, flush, and I’ve been wetting it pretty well to-day. I feel pretty jolly now, and I shouldn’t wonder if I went home cannon.9 Only a quid? Have two, if you want ‘em—or three; there’s plenty more, and you’ll do the same for me some day. Here y’are.”

      Hewitt had, of a sudden, assumed the whole appearance, manners, and bearing of a slightly elevated rowdy. Now he pulled his hand from his pocket and extended it, full of silver, with five or six sovereigns interspersed, toward Wilks.

      “I’ll have three quid,” Wilks said, with decision, taking the money; “but I’m blowed if I remember you. Who’s your pal?”

      Hewitt jerked his hand in my direction, winked, and said, in a low voice: “He’s all right. Having a rest. Can’t stand Manchester,” and winked again.

      Wilks laughed and nodded, and I understood from that that Hewitt had very flatteringly given me credit for being “wanted” by the Manchester police.

      We lurched into a public house, and drank a very little very bad whisky and water. Wilks still regarded us curiously, and I could see him again and again glancing doubtfully in Hewitt’s face. But the loan of three pounds had largely reassured him. Presently Hewitt said:

      “How about our old pal down in Gold Street? Do anything with him now? Seen him lately?”

      Wilks looked up at the ceiling and shook his head.

      “That’s a good job. It ‘ud be awkward if you were about there to-day, I can tell you.”

      “Why?”

      “Never mind, so long as you’re not there. I know something, if I have been away. I’m glad I haven’t had any truck with Gold Street lately, that’s all.”

      “D’you mean the reelers are on it?”

Hewitt looked cautiously over his shoulder, leaned toward Wilks, and said: “Look here: this is the straight tip. I know this—I got it from the very nark10 that’s given the show away: By six o’clock No. 8 Gold Street will be turned inside out, like an old glove, and everyone in the place will be—” He finished the sentence by crossing his wrists like a handcuffed man. “What’s more,” he went on, “they know all about what’s gone on there lately, and everybody that’s been in or out for the last two moons11 will be wanted particular—and will be found, I’m told.” Hewitt concluded with a confidential frown, a nod, and a wink, and took another mouthful of whisky. Then he added, as an after-thought: “So I’m glad you haven’t been there lately.”

      Wilks looked in Hewitt’s face and asked: “Is that straight?”

      “Is it?” replied Hewitt with emphasis. “You go and have a look, if you ain’t afraid of being smugged yourself. Only I shan’t go near No. 8 just yet—I know that.”

      Wilks fidgeted, finished his drink, and expressed his intention of going. “Very well, if you won’t have another—” replied Hewitt. But he had gone.

      “Good!” said Hewitt, moving toward the door; “he has suddenly developed a hurry. I shall keep him in sight, but you had better take a cab and go straight to Euston. Take tickets to the nearest station to Radcot—Kedderby, I think it is—and look up the train arrangements. Don’t show yourself too much, and keep an eye on the entrance. Unless I am mistaken, Wilks will be there pretty soon, and I shall be on his heels. If I am wrong, then you won’t see the end of the fun, that’s all.”

      Hewitt hurried after Wilks, and I took the cab and did as he wished. There was an hour and a few minutes, I found, to wait for the next train, and that time I occupied as best I might, keeping a sharp lookout across the quadrangle. Barely five minutes before the train was to leave, and just as I was beginning to think about the time of the next, a cab dashed up and Hewitt alighted. He hurried in, found me, and drew me aside into a recess, just as another cab arrived.

      “Here he is,” Hewitt said. “I followed him as far as Euston Road and then got my cabby to spurt up and pass him. He had had his mustache shaved off, and I feared you mightn’t recognize him, and so let him see you.”

      From our retreat we could see Wilks hurry into the booking-office. We watched him through to the platform and followed. He wasted no time, but made the best of his way to a third-class carriage at the extreme fore end of the train.

      “We have three minutes,” Hewitt said, “and everything depends on his not seeing us get into this train. Take this cap. Fortunately, we’re both in tweed suits.”

      He had bought a couple of tweed cricket caps, and these we assumed, sending our “bowler” hats to the cloak-room. Hewitt also put on a pair of blue spectacles, and then