"You can depend upon me, sir," said Dentham quietly, and then sneaked out of the room, chuckling to himself.
"He don't practise medicine, don't he—why, I don't believe he's a doctor at all—well, I've got what I wanted, and if I put the police on to the old cove he won't like it."
Here Mr. Dentham made a pause, struck with a brilliant idea.
"I'll get the money for putting the police on to him," he said in a satisfied tone, "then I'll come home and tell him of his danger if he pays me well—so I'll make money on both sides, and they can fight it out between them—that's what I call philosophy."
At all events, it was a very paying philosophy, and Mr. Dentham passed a happy night, dreaming of the golden harvest he would reap by betraying his master to Olive Maunders, and then by telling the doctor the lady's plans.
[Chapter X.]
Teddy Rudall's Ideas
Number Forty, Beryle Square, was a handsome-looking Town residence, but, the owners now being away from London, it had rather a desolate appearance. The boxes of brilliant flowers, that had preserved a many-coloured fringe outside the windows, had all been removed, and, the shutters being up, the house had a lonely look, which was infinitely dreary. The old woman, who looked after it in the absence of its owner, was a grimy-looking party of unprepossessing appearance, addicted to the wearing of a crushed crape bonnet, a withered-looking black dress, and a large apron which had once been white. She made a daily tour of inspection through all the deserted rooms, and cherished dire suspicions of crafty burglars hiding behind doors and under couches. Mrs. Bickles was the name of this ancient damsel, but, as a matter of fact, she had never been married, but assumed the appellation which she thought was more in keeping with her dignity.
This bright July afternoon, was the day upon which Dentham was due at 40, Beryle Square, to give his information regarding Adrian Lancaster's whereabouts, and Mrs. Bickles was seated in the kitchen, moralizing over a glass of ale, and the remnants of the frugal meal, which she dignified with the name of luncheon. Like most old people, she was very garrulous, and in default of a better listener, talked to herself when alone, so she ran no chance of interruption, but had it all her own way.
"Victuals," moaned Mrs. Bickles, wiping her mouth after a drink of beer, "is that dear, as never was. I'm sure it costs a forting to buy as much as 'ud keep a cat alive, and as for summat to drink, what with their Billees in Parlymint, and their chargin's out of it, I might as well live in the Sara Desert."