The old Irishwoman at once disappeared from the scene. Whither she went Mr. Shearman had not the faintest notion; neither did he take the trouble to inquire.
The detectives now arrived in front of a miserably dirty and dilapidated habitation; indeed, it was so covered with filth, and such an offensive odour came from the place, that Mr. Shearman half regretted having set out on the expedition.
Mr. Wrench went into the passage, opened the door of the front room and entered. He was followed by the American. On a dirty mattress which was on a ricketty bedstead, an old man was stretched—that he was sleeping soundly was evident enough.
Mr. Wrench nodded significantly to Shearman.
“Your man?” whispered the latter.
“Yes, that’s my gentleman.”
The room was dimly illumined by a gas lamp in the court, the feeble rays of which found their way through the dingy window panes. There was, therefore, light enough to distinguish the features of the sleeping man with tolerable distinctness.
“Now then, wake up, man! you are wanted,” cried Mr. Wrench, in a loud voice.
The sleeper uttered a kind of sigh or groan, and then, opening his eyes, he beheld those of an officer looking into his own.
“Curses on you, what brings you here?” cried the “smasher.” “Get out—will you? Leave me alone.”