“Which he really is a thorough gentleman,” said. Mrs Winks, enthusiastically; “as you’d say if you knowed more of him, and heard him paint and play on the fiddle. I mean—I beg your pardon, sir—seen him play on the fiddle and paint. He’s a gentleman, every inch of him, if he do lodge in Decadia, which ain’t nothing after all, is it, sir? But I’ll tell him when he comes back; and your name too?”
Clayton gave her a card, and then walked thoughtfully back, but not without stopping in front of a blank wall, where a knot of rough-looking fellows were reading a placard, commencing—“Two hundred pounds reward!” and then he shuddered, as one of the party said—“I ’spose they’d hand over all the same, if he happened to be a dead ’un?”
There was no news when he reached Regent Street, and though Sir Francis had but just concluded an interview with a police sergeant, the mystery seemed as far as ever from solution.
“I think I will go out now, Clayton,” said the baronet, in an excited and feverish manner. “It is so hard to stay in, walking up and down, as if caged, and waiting eagerly for every knock and ring. You’ll take my place—you won’t leave—you won’t leave, in case of a call while you are away.”
“You may trust me, Sir Francis.”
“Yes, yes, I know—I know,” said the old gentleman, wringing his hands, “I feel it! But, Clayton,” he said, anxiously, “if any people should come with information in answer to the advertisements, keep them till I come back.”
“I will, decidedly!” said Clayton; “but may I ask where you are going now?”
“Only to see if the bills are well posted; and, you know, I might see some one who had news,—it is possible.”
“I did see one bill posted up,” said Harry, but he did not mention the remark he had heard made.
“That’s well, Clayton—that’s well! and I hope and trust that this state of anxiety may soon be at an end.”