"S'elp me Bob! no," leered the rejuvenated wreck. "Durban, he come up t'town t'other day, an' wos run h'over by a bus as wos drivin' motor-car fashions--more miles an hour than sense, miss. He ses t'me--an ole pal of his--as he wanted to see you, and tell you wot y'should know. He ses es he'll tell you who killed your par an' th' ole Alpenny bloke."
This remark decided Beatrice. Come what may, she determined to learn the truth at last. Also, Durban was her best and oldest friend, and from what Lady Watson had said he had evidently been a better friend to her than she knew. After a moment or two she made up her mind, and turned to Mrs. Quail, who was gazing disdainfully at the leering Waterloo.
"I must go, Mrs. Quail," she said decisively; "if Durban is ill I must help him."
"But with this man?"
"Oh! I'm saif, laidy. No 'arm about me. Oh no, not at all."
"If Mr. Paslow comes," said Beatrice, addressing the landlady, and taking no notice of Waterloo, "tell him I have gone with Waterloo to see Durban.--Where is he?" she asked the man.
"In a room in a 'ouse, Malta Street, Stepney--No. 50," said Waterloo quickly, and passed along a scrap of dirty paper to Mrs. Quail. "If the young laidy don't come back saif an' sound, you'll find me 'ere."
"If she's not back by nine to-night," retorted Mrs. Quail, putting the paper in her pocket, "I'll see the police about the matter.--And after all, miss, I wouldn't go with him."
"I must," said Beatrice quickly; "there is so much at stake." And giving the landlady no further time to remonstrate, she walked away with Waterloo, who swaggered like the buck he thought he was.
"How do we get to Stepney?" asked Beatrice while they walked along Kensington High Street.