"I knew it would be so!" cried Tom Rain in a triumphant tone. "Here's the five shillings I promised you, my boy; and I don't think you've made a bad morning's work of it."
The lad grinned a smile of satisfaction, and withdrew.
Rainford soon after descended to the bar, conversed for a few minutes with his friend Tullock, the landlord, and then took his departure—duly watched by Jacob.
He had reached the corner of Drury Lane, when he felt himself somewhat rudely tapped on the shoulder.
Turning hastily round, he was confronted by a tall stout man, who, without any ceremonial preface, exclaimed, "You're wanted, my good fellow."
"I know I am," replied Tom coolly, as he measured the stranger from head to foot with a calm but searching glance: "and I'm now on my way to the place where my presence is required."
"Just so," said the stout man: "because you are going to favour me with your company, that I may introduce you to a party who wishes to become better acquainted with you."
"Who's the friend you speak of?" asked Tom in an easy, off-hand kind of manner.
"Sir Walter Ferguson," was the reply. "So come along."
With these words, the stout man took Rainford's arm and led him away to the Police Court in Bow Street.