“There’s a many Smiths about,” he said, striking at once on the waiter’s truism. “I’m a Smith myself. Might it be something to his advantage, or the other way, that was a bringing you?”
“For his advantage, I hope,” Ibbetson said smiling. “But you are not the man. George Smith, about five-and-twenty, sallow, with black hair.”
“Ah! Comes from London?”
Jack looked at him eagerly. “Is he here after all?” he said quickly. “Come, that’s good news at last.”
“What makes you so keen about it?” asked the old man curiously. “Well, it don’t matter to me. Them that he’s with won’t be very ready for you to see him or to thank me for telling you where to find him, but Elias Brooks shouldn’t have tried to make mischief between me and the vicar, this very day, too. I said I’d be even with him, and I will. There, sir, that’s the cottage, hard by. George Smith is lodging there, has been there for weeks, ill, and if they tell you to the contrary, you needn’t believe them. I said I’d be even with him. Thank you, sir. Don’t you listen to nothing they tell you.”
Jack walked through a little garden to Elias Brooks’ door, and knocked twice. He could see the old sexton hobbling away, unwilling perhaps to be pointed out as guide, but still furtively watching. At the second knock the door was partially opened, and a stout bullet-headed man appeared.
“I wish to speak to Mr George Smith,” said Ibbetson, placing himself so near the door that it could not be closed.
“No one of that name here,” said the man in a surly tone.
“Yes, he is here,” Jack said quietly. “Perhaps he is called by another name, but Mr Trent has seen him.”
“Are you come from him?”