British Mystery Classics - Arthur Morrison Edition (Illustrated). Morrison Arthur

Thursday, and the paragraph was a very short one, thus:

      “The man Wilks, who was arrested at Euston Station yesterday, in connection with the robbery of Lady Quinton’s jewels, has been released, nothing being found to incriminate him.”

      “How does that strike you?” asked Hewitt. “Wilks is a man well known to the police—one of the most accomplished burglars in this country, in fact. I have had no dealings with him as yet, but I found means, some time ago, to add his portrait to my little collection, in case I might want it, and to-day it has been quite useful.”

      The thing was plain now. Wilks must have been bringing his booty to town, and calculated on getting out at Chalk Farm and thus eluding the watch which he doubtless felt pretty sure would be kept (by telegraphic instruction) at Euston for suspicious characters arriving from the direction of Radcot. His transaction with Leamy was his only possible expedient to save himself from being hopelessly taken with the swag in his possession. The paragraph told me why Leamy had waited in vain for “Mr. W.” in the cab.

      “What shall you do now?” I asked.

      “I shall go to the Gold Street house and find out what I can as soon as this cab turns up.”

      There seemed a possibility of some excitement in the adventure, so I asked: “Will you want any help?”

      Hewitt smiled. “I think I can get through it alone,” he said.

      “Then may I come to look on?” I said. “Of course I don’t want to be in your way, and the result of the business, whatever it is, will be to your credit alone. But I am curious.”

      “Come, then, by all means. The cab will be a four-wheeler, and there will be plenty of room.”

      Gold Street was a short street of private houses of very fair size and of a half-vanished pretension to gentility. We drove slowly through, and Leamy had no difficulty in pointing out the house wherein he had been paid five pounds for carrying a bag. At the end the cab turned the corner and stopped, while Hewitt wrote a short note to an official of Scotland Yard.

      “Take this note,” he instructed Leamy, “to Scotland Yard in the cab, and then go home. I will pay the cabman now.”

      “I will, sor. An’ will I be protected?”

      “Oh, yes! Stay at home for the rest of the day, and I expect you’ll be left alone in future. Perhaps I shall have something to tell you in a day or two; if I do, I’ll send. Good-by.”

      The cab rolled off, and Hewitt and I strolled back along Gold Street. “I think,” Hewitt said, “we will drop in on Mr. Hollams for a few minutes while we can. In a few hours I expect the police will have him, and his house, too, if they attend promptly to my note.”

      “Have you ever seen him?”

      “Not to my knowledge, though I may know him by some other name. Wilks I know by sight, though he doesn’t know me.”

      “What shall we say?”

      “That will depend on circumstances. I may not get my cue till the door opens, or even till later. At worst, I can easily apply for a reference as to Leamy, who, you remember, is looking for work.”

      But we were destined not to make Mr. Hollams’ acquaintance, after all. As we approached the house a great uproar was heard from the lower part giving on to the area, and suddenly a man, hatless, and with a sleeve of his coat nearly torn away burst through the door and up the area steps, pursued by two others. I had barely time to observe that one of the pursuers carried a revolver, and that both hesitated and retired on seeing that 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