“I ’ave. After that first scrap last night, I got so sick about ’aving to bother about its being safe always that I just took and sold it. Not to them, of course, I wouldn’t give in to them. I sold it to Dobb, in Fore Street. ’E see at once that it was a genuine curiosity, and ’e didn’t ’aggle a bit.”
For several long seconds Mr. Sinnett stared at Mr. Tridge. Then, with a start, he purchased a superfluous stick of shaving-soap, and wandered from the premises. Scarce had he gone twenty yards when he found himself accosted by Mr. Peter Lock.
“Just the very gent I was ’oping to see!” said Mr. Peter Lock, exhibiting suppressed excitement. “There’s something a bit queer afoot, sir, what I’d like to talk over with you. You know about that row Mr. Tridge ’ad with the ferryman last night. At least, I think it’s something to do with that.”
“We can talk in here,” said Mr. Sinnett; and drew Mr. Lock into the “Bunch o’ Grapes.”
“Mind you, sir, I don’t take no responsibility,” said Mr. Lock. “But it’s queer. That Indian gent come into the billiard-room not half an hour ago. He said he’d arranged to meet Clark, the ferryman, there at noon, but he found he must get back to London by the eleven-eleven train this morning. And so he gave me a note to hand to him.”
“Well?”
“Well, sir, he said something about advising Clark to lay low after last night. He said he’d forgot to put that in the note, and asked me to mention it to Clark. Remembered it just as he was going, he did, and come back to tell me. Well, now, sir, I don’t want to get mixed up in no fishy cases. If you remember what them two was saying to each other last night—”
“Open the note,” directed Mr. Sinnett.
“Just what I was thinking, sir. That’s why I wanted to see you, because you was there and know as much about it as I do. If there’s any risk, I don’t mean to be in it at all.”
“Quite so,” said Mr. Sinnett. “Open the note and make sure.”