“Well, I don't know. You may be right, but I shall stick to my convictions. There are subtler emotions that cannot be shared by anyone. But I am here on business to-day. One of my men, my most trusted men—Hopkins by name—has been doing some work in the East End up by the docks. He met with a man whom he believes to have been Thompson.”
“When?” Mr. Steadman questioned sharply.
“Two days ago.”
“Then why didn't he speak out sooner?”
“He did not see any description of Thompson until this morning. Then he saw one outside a police-station and he remembered.”
“Remembered what?”
“This man,” Aubrey responded impatiently. “A man that answered to Thompson's description. He came down to the docks and tried to get a job on some distant cargo boat. Said he could do anything; but Hopkins noticed that his hands were smooth and carefully manicured. Like a gentleman's hands, Hopkins described them.”
“Did he get his job on the cargo boat?”
“Hopkins thinks that he did, or, at any rate, if not that he managed to get taken as a passenger. He went off somewhere.”
“Where was the cargo boat bound for?” Mr. Steadman seemed more interested than the inspector who was making notes in a desultory fashion.