But he was by no means sure of this: he had only caught a fugitive and transient glance of the face through the dingy windows of the door; but whoever it might have been, the man in question—if there was a second person in the little parlour, which he was by no means certain of—had been spirited away in a most extraordinary manner.
The two detectives walked up and down the street more than once, glancing as they passed along at the windows of the several houses, with no very satisfactory result.
It was not at all likely that Mr. Peace would at this time be looking out of the window of the one in which he was ensconced.
He was by far too clever a rascal for that, but the landlady of the establishment saw the officers pass and repass and described their appearance to our hero.
“Ah, it’s them safe enough,” cried Peace, “they are looking for me without a doubt, and be blowed to them. My dear madam, I don’t know how to sufficiently thank you for this timely shelter. You are my good angel, my protector.”
“I hope I am not doing wrong,” returned the woman, “but if I am it can’t be helped. I’m sure there is no telling who people are nowadays. My dear husband used to say so, and he was quite right—one never can tell.”
“Your husband,” said Peace, in some alarm—“where is he now?”
“Where is he?” cried the woman, with a shake of the head, “where, indeed? Who knows? In a happier world, let us hope.”
“Ah,” said Peace—“he is dead then?”
“Why, of course he is. Has been dead three years come next September.”