There were troubles at The Towers in the lower stratum, all connected with speculation; and, though money was worthless in these days in Chester’s eyes, the speculation affected his fate.
It was in this wise:—
Roach looked puffy, and especially so beneath the eyes, where a couple of pendulous bags disfigured his important-looking countenance.
Unkind people would have said that the flushed aspect was due to drinking, but he was perfectly steady as he got out of a hansom cab, in company with Arthur, after a short run up to town, where they had arrived by a fast train that afternoon, and taking the two small, light portmanteaus which the driver handed down, each threw his overcoat across his arm, and they walked together round the corner into Highcombe Street, made for the Clareboroughs’ town house, tried the area gate, which, as they expected, was locked, and went up the steps to the front door.
“How do you feel, Arthur?” whispered Roach.
“Right as the mail, old man. Now then, no gammon. You keep your pecker up, and do the talking, and I’ll do the business. There’s nothing to mind.”
“Nothing to mind?” said Roach, as he raised his hand towards the servants’ bell, but did not ring.
“Only the handcuffs if we don’t do what we want and clear off.”
Roach groaned.
“Don’t be a fool, old man,” whispered the footman. “As I told you, we must do it now. The game’s up, and you know what Jemmy is. There’ll be no mercy, so let’s make our hay while the sun shines. Pull the bell.”