‘Oh! but I have communicated with him, and he’s nothing particular to say to me, as far as I can see.’
Scawthorne sipped at his glass, gave a stroke to each side of his moustache, and seemed to reflect.
‘You were coming to ask Mr. Percival privately for information?’
‘That’s just it. Of course if you can’t give me any, I must see him to-morrow.’
‘He won’t tell you anything more than I have.’
‘And you don’t know anything more?’
‘I didn’t say that, my dear fellow. Suppose you begin by telling me a little more about yourself?’
It was a matter of time, but at length the dialogue took another character. The glasses of stimulant were renewed, and as Joseph grew expansive Scawthorne laid aside something of his professional reserve, without, however, losing the discretion which led him to subdue his voice and express himself in uncompromising phrases. Their sitting lasted about an hour, and before taking leave of each other they arranged for a meeting at a different place in the course of a few days.
Joseph walked homewards with deliberation, in absent mood, his countenance alternating strangely between a look of mischievous jocoseness and irritable concern; occasionally he muttered to himself. Just before reaching the Close he turned into a public-house; when he came forth the malicious smile was on his face, and he walked with the air of a man who has business of moment before him. He admitted himself to the house.
‘That you, Jo?’ cried Clem’s voice from upstairs.