Again, there was the dealer’s strong resemblance to the ragged terrier brought out; for the sergeant treated him precisely as a keeper would a dog that he was about to place in some fox’s hole, D. Wragg being thrust forward into the room—going, though, most unwillingly, and had he suddenly broken out into a sharp wailing bark, no one would have felt much surprised.
The sergeant laid his hands upon D. Wragg’s shoulders as he forced him in, peering over the said shoulders into the dingy place ahead, and then he drew back for a few moments.
“Here, Smith, you take my place,” he said; and the constable went next, while his leader crossed the low landing to where, arm-in-arm, stood Clayton and Sir Francis. “Just a moment, please, sir,” he said to Clayton, in a low voice; and then aloud to the others present, “Stand back there, will you: I go next!”
“What do you want to say?” said Clayton, glancing uneasily at the sergeant’s stern face, as the latter turned his eyes for a moment to where they had left Sir Francis.
“Only, sir,” said the sergeant, in a whisper, “that if I was in your place, I should think it my duty at any cost to get him away.”
The young man shook his head, for he knew that the sergeant counselled an impossibility.
“Well, sir, I thought it my duty to advise,” said the sergeant.
“Quite right—quite right,” said Clayton, hastily; “but he would not stir an inch. Now, pray end this horrible suspense.”
Clayton looked round once more to see that the women were not within hearing, and then, with Sir Francis and the other constable, he passed into the low, dingy, sloping-ceiled room.
There had once evidently been a partition, but this had been removed, and the attics turned into one long place, so that the whole of the top floor could be seen through at a glance, with its lumber of old cages, bundles of dried herbs, baskets of feathers, and broken furniture—chairs lame of one leg, halt and rickety tables, and an old wash-stand.