"I wish," he said, "I could give you any comfort, but I know nothing. Your agent was a very secretive man, and kept all his betting transactions to himself."
"Has he died rich?" I asked.
"No," he replied; "the widow will only have a moderate income, but there are no children."
"It is very strange," I continued, "that all these Cremorne bets should be for 'Jessop.' Where is he to be found?"
"I have no doubt he will be at the club on Monday."
That black Monday came. I could not find the slightest trace of my Cremorne bets, and there was nothing for it but to suspend payment. For the £10,000 I had only the letter of the deceased man to show, and that was of the value of so much waste paper. I made the acquaintance of Mr. Jessop, and did not like him. He was profuse in his sympathy with me, and shed a tear over his departed friend. He readily showed me his book with the Cremorne bets all duly entered, and I saw him receive the money. There was nothing for me to do but retire. It seemed to me that my agent bad been grossly careless, or had premeditated a fraud.
I did not attend the funeral, which duly took place on the Tuesday—a paragraph to that effect appeared in the sporting papers—but some days afterwards I wended my way to Streatham, where the agent resided, to see if anything had been heard of another betting-book. The house was shut up, and the neighbours told me that the desolate widow had gone away, immediately after the funeral, to some relations in the country. In answer to my question, they told me she had left no address, but promised to write. A few weeks elapsed, and I paid another visit to Streatham. The furniture had been sold, and the house was occupied by another tenant. Nothing had been heard of the widow.
Walking through Fleet-street one day, two years afterwards, I met a man the exact counterpart of my agent. The height, manner of walking, and colour of hair, all corresponded, and his appearance gave me quite a shock, and if he had worn a moustache, and did not use blue spectacles, I would have sworn that the dead was alive. I stared at him, and I thought he started on seeing me, but I put that down to imagination. Still the man haunted me, and considering the suspicious circumstances, I determined next time I should meet this individual to watch his movements. During the two years the mystery of the Cremorne bets remained as much in the dark as ever, and I had heard nothing of the widow.