“I shan’t bother my head about him,” answered Twiddel, with the recklessness of despair.
“You won’t? You want to have the story known, I suppose?”
“I don’t care if it is.”
Welsh looked at him for a minute: then he jumped up and exclaimed, “You need a drink, old man. Let’s hurry up that slavey.”
With the first course their countenances cleared a little, with the second they were almost composed, by the end of dinner they had started plot-hatching hopefully again.
“It’s any odds on the man’s still being in town,” said Welsh. “He had no money or clothes, and evidently he hasn’t gone to any of his friends, or the whole story would have been out. Now, there is nowhere where a man can lie low so well, especially if he is hard up, as London. I can answer from experience. He is hardly likely to be in the West End, or the best class of suburbs, so we’ve something to go upon at once. We must go to a private inquiry [pg 186] office and put men on his track, and then we must take the town in beats ourselves. So much is clear; do you see?”
“And hadn’t we better find out whether anything more is known at Clankwood?” suggested Twiddel. “Dr Congleton wrote a month ago; perhaps they have caught him by this time.”
“Hardly likely, I’m afraid; he’d have written to you if they had. Still, we can but ask.”
“But, I say!” the doctor suddenly exclaimed, “people may find out that I’m back without him.”
Welsh was equal to the emergency.