"There he is, sir," he whispered; "he's coming again."
Along the pavement, a little unsteadily, a young man walked. In the brilliant light of a street lamp T. B. saw that he was well dressed in a glaring way. The Assistant-Commissioner waited until the newcomer reached the next lamp; then walked to meet him.
A young man, expensively garbed, red of face, and flashily jewelled—at a distance T. B. classified him as one of the more offensive type of nouveau riche. The stranger would have passed on his way, but T. B. stepped in front of him.
"Excuse me, Mr.——" He stopped with an incredulous gasp. "Mr. Moss!" he said wonderingly. "Mr. Lewis Moss, some time of Tokenhouse Yard, company promoter."
"Here, stash it, Mr. Smith," begged the young man. He stood unsteadily, and in his eye was defiance. "Drop all that—reformed—me. Look 'ere"—he lurched forward and caught T. B. by the lapel of his coat, and his breath was reminiscent of a distillery—"if you knew what I know, ah!"
The "Ah!" was triumph in a word.
"If you knew what I know," continued Mr. Moss, with relish; "but you don't. You fellers at your game think you know toot, as Count Poltavo says; but you don't." He wagged his head wisely.
T. B. waited.
"I'm goin' to see Calliper," Mr. Moss went on, with gross familiarity, "an' what I've got to say to him is worth millions—millions, I tell you. An' when Calliper says to me, 'Mr. Moss, I thank you!' and has done the right thing, I'll come to you—see?"
"I see," said T. B., "but you mustn't annoy Sir George any more to-night."