“No doubt. Anything more?”
“Ah, now I dunno that there is. Oh, yes. Pat understood him to say that he was bound for Nantwich.”
“Mrs. Flanagan I am deeply indebted to you; accept my best thanks,” exclaimed Wrench. Should anything come of this, you will not be forgotten.”
“Oh, kape me out of the bisnis intirely. Do not mintion what I’ve tould ye to a soul, but make the best use of it. Sure now, don’t I owe you a debt of gratitude? And it’s myself as nivir forgets a kindness. Aisy now, kape dark, and say nothin’ about this or I shall be ruined.”
“You may rely upon me,” said the detective, again thanking his informant as he passed out of the “padding ken.”
Mr. Wrench kept his word. The information he had received from Mrs. Flanagan might be of essential service, or it might turn out a myth. Anyway, he was determined upon following up the slender and uncertain clue he had obtained so unexpectedly.
He at once set off to the town of Nantwich, and took with him Nell Fulford and Joe Doughty.
CHAPTER LXIII.
MR. WRENCH AND JOE DOUGHTY—A VAGRANT’S LODGING HOUSE.
The glories of Bartholomew Fair, of Greenwich, and a host of others in the neighbourhood of the metropolis have long since passed away, and it is not at all likely they will ever be resuscitated. But fairs of various descriptions are still held in many parts of England, but they are considerably shorn of their leading attractions.