“The fellow must have calculated on my concert,” replied Carpentaria. “He probably knew that everybody in this City runs to me when the slightest thing goes wrong.”
“The slightest thing!” repeated Mr. Gloucester bitterly—but not aloud, only in his secret soul.
They hurried round by the side of the Storytellers’ Hall, and so to the passage at the back. And standing at the entrance to the vaults, underneath a solitary jet of electric light, was Wiggins, the doorkeeper of the heart of the City. He was a man aged about thirty-five, six feet two high, and not quite so broad.
“So you’re here!” exclaimed Carpentaria.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where have you been since—since Mr. Ilam arrived here?”
“I did what you told me, sir,” said Wiggins, with an air of independence. Wiggins was not a Mr. Gloucester.
“What was that?” demanded Carpentaria, mystified.
“Why, your note, sir.”
“What note?”