"I think so, since the late Mr. Lancaster is dead and was a man of means. If you can find this negro--"
"What is his name?" interrupted Eustace.
"We cannot tell you that. He refused to inform us. In fact," added Mr. Saon, drawing himself up, "for an African he was impertinent."
"Why didn't you kick him?" said Eustace, rising. "H'm! Is this all you can tell me?"
"All. And if you will let us know where Mr. Lancaster the son is to be found, we shall have much pleasure in proving the will."
"The will has to be found first, and the negro," said Eustace, coolly; "and also Frank Lancaster has to get his neck out of the noose before he can let himself be arrested."
"Quite so. I admire your caution, Mr. Jarman. Still, if Mr. Lancaster the son will only place himself in our hands--"
Jarman's patience with this old ass was exhausted. "He would be hanged within the month. Good-day." And he hurried away, leaving Saon a frozen statue of indignation.
But he was not so indignant as Eustace returning to his hotel. "Silly fools!" he said, wrathfully, to himself. "They'd juggle with a man's life just to get their costs. Frank sha'n't show up, to be slaughtered by them, if I can help it. That negro! H'm! And Balkis is a negress. I wonder if the man was a spy of Berry's trying to find out the whereabouts of Frank? I must think this over. Upon my word!" lamented Eustace, hailing a hansom, "the more I go into this case the more mysterious it seems. Well, there's one comfort, the sealed letter may give us a clue to the mystery. I'll go down by the six train, and may know all about it before retiring to rest."
At his hotel he alighted and went in. Then he suddenly recollected that he had not sent a wire to Frank. To be on the safe side, although he was sending it to O'Neil, he went to the telegraph-office himself. On his way hither he, knowing the neighbourhood well, took a short cut through some by-streets. As he was turning a corner he heard a fresh young voice singing some song, the burden of which was "Tamaroo! Tamaroo!" Hardly believing his ears, Eustace dashed round the corner to hear who was repeating the last word which poor murdered Anchor had uttered. He came nearly on top of a ragged urchin, a true guttersnipe, who was dancing gaily in the gutter to the music of his own minstrelsy: