But while he said this to himself, to Maitland he only wished a good voyage, and particularly recommended to him a comedy (and a comédienne) at the Palais Royal.
CHAPTER X.—Traps.
The day before the encounter with Mr. Cranley at the house of the lady of The Bunhouse, Barton, when he came home from a round of professional visits, had found Maitland waiting in his chill, unlighted lodgings. Of late, Maitland had got into the habit of loitering there, discussing and discussing all the mysteries which made him feel that he was indeed “moving about in worlds not realized.” Keen as was the interest which Barton took in the labyrinth of his friend’s affairs, he now and again wearied of Maitland, and of a conversation that ever revolved round the same fixed but otherwise uncertain points.
“Hullo, Maitland; glad to see you,” he observed, with some shade of hypocrisy. “Anything new to-day?”
“Yes,” said Maitland; “I really do think I have a clew at last.”
“Well, wait a bit till they bring the candles,” said Barton, groaning as the bell-rope came away in his hands. “Bring lights, please, and tea, and stir up the fire, Jemima, my friend,” he remarked, when the blackened but alert face of the little slavey appeared at the door.
“Yes, Dr. Barton, in a minute, sir,” answered Jemima, who greatly admired the Doctor, and in ten minutes the dismal lodgings looked almost comfortable.
“Now for your clew, old man,” exclaimed Barton, as he handed Maitland a cup of his peculiar mixture, very weak, with plenty of milk and no sugar. “Oh, Ariadne, what a boon that clew of yours has been to the detective mind! To think that, without the Minotaur, the police would probably never have hit on that invaluable expression, ‘the police have a clew.’”
Maitland thought this was trifling with the subject.