"In conneckshun wiv two advertysements," said he. "Fifteen Darlaston Crescent is the address wot's on one. 'Ere y'are. Marked in blue it is. Initial of 'P.'"
He unfolded the journal and handed it to me. It was the paragraph which heads this chapter, and which, having been paid for a year in advance, would reiterate its useless appeal for another six months to come unless——Somehow Mr. Palamount did not impress me as a bearer of glad tidings.
"Well," I asked, without much hope. "What news can you give?"
"'Old 'ard," said my visitor, who was feeling through various pockets, as if in search of fresh documents.
"You needn't bother," I said, irritably. "I know it's in more than one."
The horny-handed one smiled, a powdery and superior smile, as of foresight justified.
"Ah!" said he. "That's wot I thought you'd be in the dark abaht. Two parties there is. Complickitions—that's wot I calls it. 'Ere y'are. Sund'y 'Erald. Twenty-first July. 'Work'ahse Marster, depitties and uvvers.'"
I snatched the paper from his hand and devoured the salient paragraph. It was a very superior article; far more calculated to strike a reader's imagination than the feeble little effort we had concocted between us. I read it aloud.
"£200 Reward. To workhouse masters, lodging-house deputies and others....
"The above reward will be paid for information that shall lead to the discovery or certify the death of Paul Ingram, native of Lilburn, Massachusetts, U. S. A. He was discharged from the French Foreign Legion in March 19—. Was subsequently correspondent in Morocco for the Federated Press, and is known to have been living in London in very reduced circumstances as recently as last September.