“Looks like it, don’t it,” said D. Wragg, coolly. “Only don’t you make no mistake. I’ve had dealings in dorgs afore now, gents; and I don’t think, as you’ll find, I aint fledged.”
The young men turned as the speaker pointed towards the door, and gave quite a start as, in place of the heavy features just before the occupants of the door-frame, they saw peering in the impassive inquiring countenance of a policeman.
But the next moment the constable had sauntered on, muttering first the word “rats,” and after walking a few steps, “or pigeons.”
Harry directly recognised in him the constable who had directed them, and turning to the dealer, he said, quietly—
“My friend here is a gentleman, Mr Wragg. He gave you to understand distinctly last night that he should not employ the police.”
“Then what was that there Bobby a looking in for, then?” said the dealer, in an injured tone.
“On my honour I don’t know, unless it was from simple curiosity,” replied Harry. “We asked him to direct us in a street a short distance away.”
“Honour bright?” said D. Wragg.
“I gave you my word,” said Harry, with ill-concealed contempt; and there was something so straightforward in the young man’s countenance, that it immediately carried with it conviction, for the dealer brightened up, and directly thrust out a hand in token of amity.
Smiling the while, Harry Clayton took it, Lionel looking on with an amused expression.