"No, no," said the florid man, still toying with the watch, "I don't believe that—it's your gammon. Why, where did you see one?"
He shot another stealthy glance toward the bar-parlour door as he said it, and the glance was so unlike the smile that my sleeping caution was alarmed. I remembered how my grandfather had come by the watch with the M on the back; and I remember his repeated warnings that I must not talk.
"——Why, where did you see one?" asked the stranger.
"In a man's hand," I said, with stolid truth.
He looked at me so sharply through his grin that I had an uncomfortable feeling that I had somehow let out the secret after all. But I resolved to hold on tight.
"Ha! ha!" he laughed, "in a man's hand, of course! I knew you was a smart one. Mine hasn't got any letter on the back, you see."
"No," I answered with elaborate indifference; "no letter." And as I spoke I found more matter of surprise. For if I had eyes in my head—and indeed I had sharp ones—there was Mrs. Grimes in a dark entry across the street, watching this grinning questioner and me.
"Some have letters on the back," said the questioner. "Mine ain't that sort. What sort——"
Here Joe the potman dropped, or knocked over, something in the bar-parlour; and the stranger started.
"I think I'm wanted indoors," I said, moving off, glad of the interruption. "Good-bye!"