It was then that Viney, with Ogle at his elbow, awaited the closing of the Hole in the Wall, hidden in the dark entry, whence Mrs. Grimes had watched the plain-clothes policeman fishing for information a few hours earlier. The customers grew noisier as the hour neared; and Captain Nat's voice was heard enjoining order once or twice, ere at last it was raised to clear the bar. Then the company came out, straggling and staggering, wrangling and singing, and melted away into the dark, this way and that. Mr. Cripps went east, the pale pensioner west, each like a man who has all night to get home in; and the potman, having fastened the shutters, took his coat and hat, and went his way also.
There was but one other tavern in sight, and that closed at the same time as the Hole in the Wall; and since none nearer than Paddy's Goose remained open till one, Wapping Wall was soon dark and empty. There were diamond-shaped holes near the top of the shutters at the Hole in the Wall, and light was visible through these: a sign that Captain Nat was still engaged in the bar. Presently the light dulled, and then disappeared: he had extinguished the lamps. Now was the time—while he was in the bar-parlour. Viney came out from the entry, pulling Ogle by the arm, and crossed the street. He brought him to the court entrance, and placed his hand on the end post.
"This is the first post in the court," Viney whispered. "Wait here while I go. We both know what's to do."
Viney tip-toed to the bar-parlour door, and tapped. There was a heavy footstep within, and the door was flung open. There stood Captain Nat with the table-lamp in his hand. "Who's that?" said Captain Nat. "Come into the light."
Viney took a deep breath. "Me," he answered. "I'll come in; I've got something to say."
He went in side-foremost, with his back against the door-post, and Captain Nat turned slowly, each man watching the other. Then the landlord put the lamp on the table, and shut the door. "Well," he said, "I'll hear you say it."
There was something odd about Captain Nat's eyes: something new, and something that Viney did not like. Hard and quiet; not anger, it would seem, but some-thing indefinable—and worse. Viney braced himself with another inspiration of breath.
"First," he said, "I'm alone here, but I've left word. There's a friend o' mine not far off, waiting. He's waiting where he can hear the clock strike on Shadwell Church, just as you can hear it here; an' if I'm not back with him, safe an' sound, when it strikes one, he's going to the police with some papers I've given him, in an envelope."
"Ah! An' what papers?"
"Papers I've written myself. Papers with a sort of private log in them—not much like the one they showed 'em at Lloyd's—of the loss of the Florence years enough ago, when a man named Dan Webb was killed. Papers with the names of most of the men aboard, an' hints as to where to find some of 'em: Bill Stagg, for instance, A. B. They may not want to talk, but they can be made."