I left the shop, thanking the chance that had led me to it. In the information I had gained there was pregnant matter for thought. That a wealthy gentleman like Mr. Oliver Nisbet should call in such a man in a case of life and death was something more than strange; it was in the highest degree suspicious, and I felt confident that some information of importance to my mission was to be elicited from one whose necessities, as Bob had observed, might lay him open to the temptation of a bribe. South Lambeth was a long way from the north of London; but so anxious was I to lose no time, that I determined to proceed there at once.
With this intention I walked into the wider thoroughfares to look for a cab, and was about to hail one when a man walking quickly toward me, stopped as we came close to each other, and accosted me.
"Why, Mr. Emery," he said, "I heard you were in Brighton."
It was Mr. Dickson, the private inquiry agent.
"I am in London, as you see," I replied. "Who told you I was in Brighton?"
"I learned it at your house two hours ago."
I groaned inwardly, thinking of what was in store for me if my good wife discovered that I was deceiving her.
"Did you see my wife?"
"No, a servant answered the bell, and said you had run down to the seaside for the day."
"I wished the business between us," I said rather severely, "to be kept secret. What took you to my house, Mr. Dickson?"