“It is a serious loss—is it not?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, anxiously watching his countenance, its expression denoting hope—nay, even indicating a certainty of success in the endeavour to recover the amount: but that same tablet of the mind gave no assurance that the man would act honourably towards her in the end, and content himself only with a share.
“Five thousand four hundred pounds!” he again repeated, in a musing tone. “Yes—’tis a serious loss! The recovery, however, would be two thousand seven hundred a-piece: would that suit you?” he demanded, turning abruptly towards her.
“What?” she said, affecting not to comprehend the question.
“Will you agree to give me one half of the sum, if I recover the whole?” asked Rily. “That is plain English, I believe—and now it depends on you whether our conversation shall be prolonged or not.”
“Yes—I will cheerfully give you one half,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, making up her mind to keep to the bargain only in the case of her inability to depart from it with safety to herself.
“Well and good,” resumed Rily. “I must now inform you that the tall fellow who was with the old man is one of the most noted cracksmen in London—a desperate ruffian, who would think no more of shooting a person through the head than of eating his dinner. What his real name is, I don’t know—I never heard—although he and I have been acquainted for years past: but he is called Vitriol Bob, from a little peculiarity which he has introduced into his professional mode of doing business.”
“I do not catch your meaning,” said Mrs. Mortimer—though not without a shudder; for she did entertain a vague suspicion of the frightful origin of that singular pseudonym.
“I’ll explain myself more fully, ma’am,” returned the Doctor, “since we have all the day before us, and may chatter a bit to while away the time. You see that the individual of whom we are speaking, has an awkward knack of lurking about in bye-streets and secluded neighbourhoods, to way-lay gentlemen who happen to have gold chains hanging over their waistcoats or out of their fobs: for those little articles are pretty faithful evidences that the purses of such folks are not entirely empty. Well, in case of a struggle, our friend is apt to break a phial of vitriol over the face of his opponent, so that he may get away, and also that the said opponent may be blinded, and unable to identify him on any future occasion. Hence his name of Vitriol Bob; and such is the terror he has inspired throughout the districts of Kennington, Camberwell, Peckham, and thereabouts, that the moment any gentleman returning home from a party or from the tavern hears the ominous sound of ‘Your money or your eyes,’ he exclaims, ‘Don’t throw the vitriol, and I’ll give up everything.’”
“Is this possible?” cried Mrs. Mortimer, with a shudder that was colder and more perceptible than the former one.
“Oh! quite possible, ma’am, I can assure you,” said the Doctor, calmly. “You shall see Vitriol Bob to-night—and then judge for yourself whether he looks like a fellow who could do such a thing, or not. A more hang-dog countenance you never saw in your life. I know that I am not particularly handsome,” he added with a horrible grin and leer: “but I don’t look quite such a bravo as he does.”