“I'll tell you what, Mr. Wilton,” said Corson after a pause. “If you'll wait a bit, I'll go with you—that is, if there isn't somebody else you'd like better to have by your side to-night. You don't look to have any of your friends about.”
“Just the thing,” I said heartily. “There's no one I'd rather have. We'll go down as soon as we can get a bite to eat.”
“I'll have to wait a bit, sor, till my relief comes. He'll be along soon. As for getting a bite, you can't do better than wait till you get to Mother Borton's. It's a rough place, but it's got a name for good cooking.”
I was bewildered.
“I guess there's not much to be got in the way of eating in the house. There was nothing left in it yesterday morning but the rats.” I spoke with considerable emphasis.
“That's square, now,” he said, looking to see if there was a jest behind the words. “But 'twas all there when McPherson and I put a club to a drunk as was raising the Ould Nick in the place and smashing the bottles, not six hours ago. When we took him away in the ixpriss wagon the ould woman was rowling out those long black curses in a way that would warm the heart of the foul fiend himself.”
There was some fresh mystery about this. I held my tongue with the reflection that I had better let it straighten itself out than risk a stumble by asking about things I ought to know.
Corson's relief soon appeared. “It's a nasty night,” he said, buttoning up his overcoat closely, as Corson gave him a brief report of the situation on the beat.
“It's good for them as likes it dark,” said Corson.
“It's just such a night as we had when Donaldson was murdered. Do you mind it?”