They found Terence below, rigged out in his Sunday best, and looking very smart. The stick was handed to him, with full instructions how to act, and what to say, should the gentleman recognise the stick.
"You can depend on me, gentlemen," said Terence.
"Be off now, Terence, and don't drink anything strong. Stick to light stuff, and report to us directly you have seen him."
"Right you are, your honour, and be jabers, if he's the man, we'll see him at 345, Nicholson Street," said Terence as he left.
About nine o'clock Terence called at their hotel, in a very excited state, and quite out of breath.
"It's Wyck, it's Wyck," he said, sinking down on a chair and wiping his forehead. They gave him time to recover his breath, and then he told them his story.
"When I left your honour," he said, "I went to the 'Gaiety,' but he was not there, so I waited on the other side of the road, as I didn't want Dick to see me togged up. Just about seven, I see Dick's cab drive up, and out jumps the old gentleman. When Dick had driven off again, I followed him into the saloon. There he was, larking with Miss Harris, but I took no notice of him at all. 'A glass of lager,' says I, throwing down a sovereign carelessly, like as if I was a toff, and as I counted the change I put the stick on the counter. The old gent he gives a start directly he sees it, and he looks quite hard at me, but I took no notice and called for a smoke. Well, I lights up, says good-night, and was just off, when he calls out—'Have another drink with me?'
"'I don't mind,' says I.
"'That's a curious sort of stick,' says he, pointing to it.
"'Yes,' says I.