The other fixed his keen grey eyes upon Claverton for a moment. Then he delivered himself of just three words.
“The devil!” exclaimed Claverton, astonished, “I thought that game was played out long ago.”
“No, it ain’t; not a bit of it. And it’s sure profits, quick returns; but-all-fired risk.”
“Well, let’s hear all about it.”
The other left the papers which he had been sorting, and, drawing his chair to the fire, began to lay out his scheme. And at last the dingy office grew shadowy, and the boy came in to know if he shouldn’t lock up.
“Yes,” assented Morkum. “Come along and dine somewhere, Claverton, and you shall tell me what you’ve been doing all this time. We can talk business to-morrow.”
The clocks were chiming a quarter to twelve as they separated at King’s Cross Station.
“Going to walk home, are you?” said the American, reflectively. “Queer city, this. Many a man disappears, and is never more heard of by his inquiring relatives.”
“It would be a precious risky job for any enterprising spirits to try and conceal my whereabouts. They’d get hurt,” answered Claverton, with a meaning laugh.
“That’s right,” said the other, approvingly. “Never have your hand far from your coat-pocket, and you’ll do. Good-night.”