He found the Magnolia Toilet Saloon to be void of customers, and at once sat down in the operating chair. Mr. Tridge, deftly tucking a towel about his patron’s throat, began to indulge in conversation with professional fluency.
“And ’ow’s business, sir?” he asked. “Pretty bright, I ’ope? There seems to be plenty of money knocking about the town for them as knows where to look for it. I know one gent, a customer of mine, what reckons to clear easy fifty quid over a little deal ’e’s got in ’and, and the funny part of it is that ’e ain’t bought what ’e’s after yet. ’E’s made a offer, but—”
He stopped abruptly and, obtaining Mr. Pincott’s attention in the mirror, frowned warningly at him as Mr. Dobb entered.
“I understand,” said Mr. Pincott.
Mr. Dobb nodded patronizingly to Mr. Tridge, and accorded a rather more patronizing nod to Mr. Pincott. He then sat down quietly with a newspaper to await his turn for Mr. Tridge’s services. This coming at last, he took his place in the chair with marked alacrity.
“Don’t keep me longer than you can ’elp,” he directed. “I’m a bit later than I meant to be already. Give me a nice, clean shave, will you? I’m just on my way to see a lady on business.”
Mr. Pincott, in the act of passing through the doorway, involuntarily turned round and stared at Mr. Dobb.
When, ten minutes later, Mr. Dobb emerged from Mr. Tridge’s establishment, lovingly caressing and pinching a velvet chin, he betrayed not the slightest indication that he was aware that Mr. Pincott was lurking inconspicuously at an adjacent corner. Mr. Dobb, as one with a definite purpose, walked sharply up the street, turned into the neighbouring High Street, and thence crossed the wide market place diagonally. His itinerary was closely watched and imitated by Mr. Pincott.
And next Mr. Dobb made his way down the narrow, tumble-down alley known as Market Lane, still vigilantly attended by his trade rival. Finally, Mr. Dobb halted at a little sweetstuff shop, and without looking round, entered at its door. Mr. Pincott, finding convenient ambush near by, patiently waited for some minutes, and at last saw Mr. Dobb come again to the threshold of the tiny shop. Here Mr. Dobb turned round, and seemed to be in earnest discussion with some one within, eventually going off back along Market Lane with his hands deep thrust in his pockets and a dissatisfied expression on his face.
Mr. Pincott elatedly watched Mr. Dobb vanish from sight. Then, with long, eager strides, he went across the street and entered the little shop to the symptoms of tempestuous jangling of its door-bell. A female gazed at him inquiringly from behind the counter, but Mr. Pincott made no immediate remark to her, for he was engrossed in staring at a huge and pitchy landscape. Closer examination revealed the signature of “Andrew Carrotti” flung across a corner in a crimson scrawl.