Vitriol Bob knew that he was an object of terror to the functionaries of justice in general: but he was also well aware that there were exceptions to the rule, and that amongst so large a body as the police-force, some few individuals would pounce upon him at all risks. In fact, the impunity he enjoyed was not so completely assured as to render precaution unnecessary; and there was moreover such a thing as being taken by surprise. For these reasons he accordingly made use of one of the “haunted houses,”—for so they were denominated,—as a place of concealment whenever he had committed a deed calculated to lead to the institution of unpleasant enquiries.
Such was the individual whom we now find in company with Torrens; and the circumstance that threw them together in the first instance, will presently transpire through the medium of the conversation that took place as soon as they were seated in the kitchen of the haunted house.
“Well, here we are safe at last, old feller,” cried Vitriol Bob, puffing deliberately at his pipe, as if he savoured deliciously the soothing influences of the tobacco. “By goles! it is one of the best larks I ever was engaged in. Such a lot of tin, and so easily got!”
“Two thousand seven hundred a piece—eh?” said Torrens, eyeing his companion with nervous suspense, as if he were eager to assure himself that a fair and equitable division of the booty would take place.
“Hah!” observed the ruffian, in a complacent manner, as he filled the two tumblers with brandy from the black bottle: “drink!”—and he emptied one of the glasses at a draught, just as if it were a mere thimble-full of the fiery liquid. “It was a good job, old feller,” he continued, after a short pause, “that you fell in with such a prime chap as I am—or rayther, it was fortnit that I lodged in the same house, and as I came in heard you moaning and groaning away in your cellar. It was also lucky that you let me worm out of you all that had happened—although you was precious chary of making a confidant of me. You remember that I couldn’t believe you at fust—I looked on you as a perfect madman. Thinks I to myself, ‘There’s a precious lu-nattic just ’scaped out of Bedlam:’ for how was I to fancy that you’d raly been robbed of such an amount, living in a cellar as you was!”
“But you believed me at last—you saw that it was all true and correct,” exclaimed Torrens, perceiving that it suited the man’s humour to talk on the subject.
“Well, I did,” returned Vitriol Bob: “and now,” he added, tapping his breeches pockets significantly, “I have got plenty of proof that you didn’t tell no lies. But, Lord bless ye! you could have done nothink without me: you would have sat down quietly under your loss. But I told you that I’d find the old voman out, if so be she was in London at all; and so I did. The description you gave me of her was not to be mistaken—’specially by a genelman of eggs-sperience like myself. I went about all over London, looking for her; and then, behold ye! arter all she’s living within a stone’s throw of us, as one may say. By goles! I never shall forget how my heart jumped in my buzzim when I clapped eyes on her yesterday, as she came out of the coffee-house: but you don’t know how I found out that she actiwaliy lived there?”
“No—I do not,” said Torrens, observing that his companion bent upon him a look of mysterious importance, as much as to invite a query that should furnish him with the opportunity of giving an explanation relative to the point alluded to. “How did it happen, then?”
“Why, when I see the old voman come out of the coffee-house, I went straight away to my blewen—that’s Pig-faced Polly, as she’s called—and I tells her to go to the place, take tea and toast, and wait till she found out whether the old voman lived there, or not. But I orders Polly not to make inquiries, for fear of eggs-citing suspicion. Well, my gal did as I told her—and waited, and waited a good long time; and when she’d had three teas and four or five buttered toastesses, she see the old voman come in, and she hears the landlady come out and say, ‘Here’s your key, Mrs. Mortimer.’ Then up goes Mrs. Mortimer—for such her name seems to be—to her room; and Pig-faced Poll returns to me with the hintelligence. I knowed that my game was now safe enough; and it was me which dewised the plan of our going as officers with a search-warrant, when we’d watched the old voman leave the coffee-house this morning.”
“Yes—yes: I know that you did it all,” said Torrens, terribly alarmed lest he who experienced the lion’s share of the trouble, should now claim the lion’s share of the booty. “But how long shall we be obliged to remain here? I am in a hurry to get away—with my share—my fair share of my own money——”