Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.
A Question.
“Been here five minutes, sir,” said Sergeant Falkner, as Harry Clayton entered the passage of the Regent Street house. “Yes, five minutes exactly,” he continued, referring to his watch. “I’d allowed myself ten minutes to wait and see if Sir Richard woke up; and if he had not at the end of that time, I was off. But as you’ve come, sir, that’ll do as well, for I promised him I’d look in and state progress every day.”
“What news have you, then?” said Harry.
“I don’t know as I have any as yet, sir.”
Harry gave a fresh gesture of impatience.
“Slow and sure, sir, ’s my motto,” said the sergeant. “’Tain’t always that one can make a dead swoop down. I should have liked to have brought you word that I had found next day after getting instructions; but a case of this sort is like hatching chickens—it takes time. You’ve been thinking as the eggs are all addled, but p’raps you’re wrong, sir. I don’t know. I won’t say but what I might have heard one little thing beginning to peck inside, and one may have a good brood yet—who knows!”
“But have you anything authentic you can tell me?” said Harry, who was wearied out with these many purposeless visits, the endless consultations, the trivial information demanded, and after all the small result.