“Not the least.”
The man pondered a while.
“I hae’t,” he exclaimed at last. “What a fule I was no to think o’ that afore! Gin’t be a puir bit yow-lammie like, ‘at ye’re efter, I’ll tell ye what: there’s ae man, a countryman o’ our ain, an’ a gentleman forbye, that’ll do mair for ye in that way, nor a’ the detaictives thegither; an’ that’s Robert Falconer, Esquire.—I ken him weel.”
“But I don’t,” said Hugh.
“But I’ll introduce ye till ‘im. He bides close at han’ here; roun’ twa corners jist. An’ I’m thinkin’ he’ll be at hame the noo; for I saw him gaein that get, afore ye cam’ up to me. An’ the suner we gang, the better; for he’s no aye to be gotten hand o’. Fegs! he may be in Shoreditch or this.”
“But will he not consider it an intrusion?”
“Na, na; there’s no fear o’ that. He’s ony man’s an’ ilka woman’s freen—so be he can do them a guid turn; but he’s no for drinkin’ and daffin’ an’ that. Come awa’, Maister Sutherlan’, he’s yer verra man.”
Thus urged, Hugh rose and accompanied the policeman. He took him round rather more than two corners; but within five minutes they stood at Mr. Falconer’s door. John rang. The door opened without visible service, and they ascended to the first floor, which was enclosed something after the Scotch fashion. Here a respectable looking woman awaited their ascent.
“Is Mr. Falconer at hom’, mem?” said Hugh’s guide.
“He is; but I think he’s just going out again.”