“I see,” said Mr. Clark, and pointedly turned his shoulder to Mr. Sinnett.
“How—how big are they?” ventured Mr. Sinnett.
“Both of ’em are a pretty fair size,” said Mr. Clark. “But it don’t matter. I—I was only just wondering. See?”
He brought his back even more deliberately into Mr. Sinnett’s cognizance, and the conversation ended. And, a few minutes after, he quitted the room with so ungenial an air that Mr. Sinnett had not the courage to accompany him. And he found Mr. Tridge was gone from the billiard-room, so that there was nothing left for Mr. Sinnett to do but to retire home to spend a night of fitful slumber.
Early next morning did he enter the Magnolia Toilet Saloon, drawn thither by an irresistible desire to keep abreast of every development in this affair which so tantalizingly suggested personal profit without indicating the means thereto.
“Morning, sir!” said Mr. Tridge.
“Morning!” returned Mr. Sinnett. “I just looked in to see how those wounds of yours are getting on.”
“Oh, they’re all right,” said Mr. Tridge; and added, in the casual tones of heroism, “Matter of fact, it was a bit of a scrap. And, what’s more, I ’ad another one after I left you last evening. Only, of course, I don’t want you to talk about ’em. It won’t do this ’ere saloon no good.”
“And—and the second scrap?”
“Ah, that was in my lodgings! When I got ’ome,” narrated Mr. Tridge, “I see my window open. Indoors I goes, very quiet. Blest if they wasn’t trying to burgle me!”