The other shrugged his shoulders and said, “She aint far off, I’ll wager.”
They took off their capes and comforters and sat down.
Both these personages have been already introduced on the night Laura Stanbridge paid a visit to the thieves’ haunt in Whitechapel.
One was the “Smoucher,” the other was the “Cracksman,” and perhaps such another pair of scoundrels could not be found in the metropolis.
The Smoucher threw himself into a chair with the perpendicular back of the Elizabethan age—the Cracksman luxuriated in the soft depths of the latest patent spring.
Presently the sounds of footsteps were heard in the passage, and Miss Stanbridge entered. She was dressed in the height of fashion, and certainly looked what might be termed captivating.
“Glad you’ve come,” said she, with a smile. “You managed to get here without meeting with any impediment?”
“It was all fair sailing,” returned the Smoucher. “No Queen’s service men to overhaul us, but we took care to come by different roads, and walked the quiet sides of the streets.”
“Where’s the Prince?” inquired the cracksman.
The Prince was a nickname they had given to Alf Purvis—now, however, no longer Alf Purvis, but Algernon Sutherland.