Peace returned to the club-room. He was followed by Brickett.
“Well,” said the latter, “how about the description? Do ’ee know aught about the stranger?”
“I am afraid I do,” returned Peace, who then proceeded to make his companion acquainted with his rencontre with Bristow.
“And it is just possible,” he said, in conclusion, “that the miserable besotted wretch spent the money I gave him in drink. I say it is possible—nay, more, it is most probable.”
“If I were you I’d just run over to Saltwich and see if it be he—that is, if you can spare the time.”
In less than half an hour after this Charles Peace rang the porter’s bell at the workhouse.
He was conducted by the master into a small apartment. An iron bedstead was in this, on the mattrass of which was stretched the dead body of a man.
One glance sufficed.
It was the last mortal remains of John Bristow.
The whole affair had been so sudden, the denouement to the tragedy so swift, or it might be said electric, that Peace stood appalled.