“Well, I’m going,” said. Mr. Clark. “I ain’t missed a performance yet.”
And with that proud boast he went on his way, and Mr. Dobb resumed his homeward path. Passing the Magnolia Toilet Saloon, a salvo of taps upon the window claimed his attention, and glancing inside, he found himself being beckoned imperatively by the proprietor.
“Peter Lock’s looking all over the place for you,” Mr. Tridge informed him. “’E wants you to ’urry round to the ‘Royal William’ soon as ever you can.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“The chap ’oose wife tried to poison ’im with the big eyes—” replied Mr. Tridge, a trifle obscurely.
“Poison ’im with big eyes?” murmured Mr. Dobb, grappling with the enigma.
“In the first hact,” supplied Mr. Tridge, helpfully. “So Peter says. I was asleep.”
“Oh, now I know! Well, what about ’im?”
“’E’s practising ’is billiards at the ‘Royal William.’ Peter thought ’e might come in useful somewhere, sometime, some’ow. You know—that glass shandyleary of yours.”
Mr. Dobb, without wasting time on mere social amenities, straightway turned and set out for the “Royal William.” Entering the billiard-room, he found it to be occupied by but two persons. Of these, one was the marker, Mr. Peter Lock, and the other was an individual of attenuated physique, theoretically clean-shaven, but actually rather blue-chinned. A top hat, worn occipitally, graced the stranger’s head, and an overcoat, featuring some kind of strange fur on its collar, hung on a peg behind the door. These clues, in conjunction with Mr. Tridge’s foreword, enabled Mr. Dobb to exploit the occasion without further assistance from Mr. Lock.