“Oh,” cried Shearman, “I shall have to tell you one or two more of my adventures, then.”
While this conversation had been taking place, and the two detectives had been keeping watch over the entrance to the common lodging-house, a man with a shambling gait had made his way to the “Bag o’ Nails”. This personage was Cooney, and, as the reader will doubtless readily imagine, he had not paid a visit to the place without a purpose.
His object was to have a word or two with the potman of the establishment, to whom he was very well known.
Cooney’s circle of acquaintances, if not very select, might be considered extensive. Potmen he looked upon us his natural associates; any way, he generally managed to ingratiate himself in their good graces.
Cooney entered the taproom of the house, and drew the potman on one side in a mysterious manner.
“I say, Dick, old man—a word with you,” whispered Cooney. The two went into the passage.
“Well, what’s the row?” cried the potman.
“Just give us the straight tip. You’ve got two blokes—upstairs in the front room, first floor, aint you?”
“There are two gentlemen there, I believe.”
“Guessed as much. Gentlemen with eyes like gimlets, as can pierce through a four-inch deal board. Eh?”