He ceased to speak, transferring his entire attention to the preliminaries of a stroke.
“Well, what did ’e tell you?” demanded Mr. Pincott, when Mr. Lock stood erect again with a sigh of relief, and then began to stride purposefully towards the top of the table.
“Who, sir?” asked Mr. Lock, bending for further effort.
“Why, Dobb!”
“Dobb? Oh, yes!” said Mr. Lock. “Ah, I thought there was just the right exact amount of ‘side’ on that one!”
“About this ’ere Dobb!” Mr. Pincott impatiently reminded him.
“Oh, yes! Well, he didn’t tell me so very much, after all, sir. Only something about being on the track of a vallyble picture, what was hanging up practically unbeknown in this very town here, and about him hoping to buy it cheap before anyone else slipped in and snapped it up.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Pincott, thoughtfully. “Oh!” he repeated, still more thoughtfully. “Oh, ’e said that, did ’e? Did ’e tell you where the picture was?”
“No, sir, he didn’t say no more after that. He just lit a cigar and walked on.”
For a few seconds Mr. Pincott silently contemplated this goading mental picture of Mr. Dobb prodigally lighting cigars, plainly an earnest and foretaste of opulence to come. Then Mr. Pincott turned again to the marker and urged him to strive to remember every word that had passed in this interview with Mr. Dobb.