"Oh, that's him, is it?" replied Mr. Parsons, "and what's his address when he's at home?"
"How should I know his address?" said the landlord. "If you wants to call on him, you might try the Jockey Club, or I shouldn't be surprised if you was to find him at Tattersall's of a Sunday afternoon; that sort mostly shows up there. What might you want with him?"
"Oh, it's no great matter," replied Mr. Parsons; "it's only a little bit of business about a dog," and then he changed the conversation.
"Racing plate," he thought, "there is never any mistake about that; that's the real genuine article, thank goodness." And then Mr. Parsons, who was of a sentimental turn of mind and a humble patron of the drama, sauntered off to the Britannia Theatre, at Hoxton, and derived no small degree of mental comfort in four hours of the sorrows of "Ada, the Betrayed."
It has been said that Lord Hetton was an economical man; every farthing that he could scrape together invariably went to settle his accounts with his trainer. He had begun life as a pigeon, to all appearances he would end it as a hawk. Dark rumours of shady things which had been done in his name rendered men shy of backing his horses. Scandal had said that the boy who rode Dark Despair, when that animal was beaten on the post, had pulled the great raking chestnut by his lordship's orders. But though Lord Hetton had done many shabby things in his time, it was by no fault of his that Dark Despair failed to win the blue ribbon of the turf. It is quite possible that the boy who rode the animal had made a mess of the race at the critical moment, or he may even have been "got at," but that was not Lord Hetton's opinion or that of his astute trainer; and the same stunted youth still always rode in his lordship's colours in any big event in which Lord Hetton's animals might be engaged. Owner and trainer had neither of them been to blame in the matter; his lordship had honestly backed Dark Despair, and had had considerable difficulty in meeting his engagements at the time. There had even been an execution in Azalea Lodge. Azalea Lodge was the one luxury that his lordship permitted himself; he looked upon it as his home, and the titular mistress of Azalea Lodge had been the original cause of all his differences with his father. Hetton was quite a boy when he first fell into the toils of the syren; he was not quite fool enough to marry her, his fear of the old lord prevented that; for her sake Lord Hetton declined to marry; for her sake he was shut out from society; and he was a man to be pitied after all, for he hadn't a friend in the world, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he succeeded in satisfying her numerous extravagant demands for money. The lady was passée, vulgar, and her temper was almost diabolical; but she still retained her hold upon Lord Hetton's affections. She had succeeded in riveting the fetters which bound Lord Hetton to her in a rather original manner—by an act of generosity for which none of her acquaintances would have given her credit, least of all his lordship. When he made his great fiasco with Dark Despair, and the execution was already in Azalea Lodge, by an impulse of generosity the lady had driven over to Messrs. Israels, and had pledged with them her entire collection of valuable jewelry. She had handed the cheque to Lord Hetton, and he did settle at Tattersall's on the fatal Monday following the race. Lord Hetton was agreeably astonished; he found, much to his surprise, that he had one real friend in the world. Is it then to be wondered at that from that day Lord Hetton clung to his only friend, and that he looked upon Azalea Lodge as his home? Things went better with Lord Hetton, and he settled Azalea Lodge and its valuable contents upon the object of his gratitude.
When anything remained to him after paying his trainer whenever he made a coup, or landed a good stake, he invariably made a thank-offering at the shrine in St. John's Wood. It was all very wrong, and very wicked, no doubt, but after all it was perhaps very natural.
It was nine o'clock one Sunday night, and Mr. Parsons was very busy indeed—he was preparing for the war-path. On his table were arranged a number of polished steel implements, which looked like surgical instruments; they were burglar's tools. Half-a-dozen handy bits of candle and a box of silent matches were quickly placed in his pocket; a piece of strong Manilla cord some four yards long, with a sharp three-pronged hook at the end of it, was wrapped around his waist, beneath his virtuous waistcoat; his plain tweed coat carried numerous canvas bags lined with washleather in its back. It was a wonderful coat with innumerable pockets in the inside; in each of these mysterious receptacles he placed one or other of the implements of his trade; a short crow-bar in three pieces, which could be screwed together, formed the last of these, while a big bunch of skeleton keys, a phial full of oil and another of acid were slipped into his waistcoat pockets. He popped a pair of loose felt slippers into his hat, calmly lighted his pipe and proceeded to Old Street. He then called a hansom cab and told the driver to take him to the Swiss Cottage.
