Cabmen are accustomed to these sudden re-directions, and without a word, the man turned his horse in the direction of the city.
“Your guv’nor didn’t seem to know his own mind,” growled Seth’s cabman, through the hole in the roof.
“Follow him!” said Seth, whose blood was beginning to stir within his veins, as the lurcher’s or the sleuthhound’s will when hot upon the trail.
Bartley Bradstone’s cab pulled up at Ethelred Chambers, and, telling the cabman to wait, he went up the stairs, and, without knocking, opened the door of a dingy office and walked in.
Ezekiel Mowle was seated at a table, his huge mouth open, his lantern jaws working eagerly, as he sprawled over a desk, writing apparently for dear life. The office, the furniture of which would not have realized five-and-thirty shillings, was in extreme disorder, and a Gladstone bag was lying half open on the floor, as if it had been hurriedly thrown there.
Mr. Mowle looked up with a start, and, uttering an exclamation, covered the paper before him with his huge, bony hand. If his employer had been a ghost—and, indeed, Bartley Bradstone looked not unlike one—Mr. Mowle could not have been more startled.
“Mr. Bradstone, sir! This is a surprise. How do you do, sir? I am afraid you’re not looking well. Take a chair, Mr. Bradstone,” and he drew the chair out and stood with his head thrust forward, rubbing his hands and eying Bartley Bradstone with a wary and still startled watchfulness.
Bartley Bradstone took off his hat and wiped his brow.
“I am not very well, Mowle,” he said. “I have come up on important business. What the devil is the office in such a state for? Where are you going?”
Mr. Mowle changed color, but stood rubbing his hands and working his long neck.