Next day, as if to add to the complications, a note was handed into the Office addressed to me, with twopence of deficient postage to pay, and which ran thus—
“A blake Sheep. yul finde the rober of mr temples is thee Peg on the bete. serche him an his howse an yul see. giv him 10 yers the vilin.”
The most of this precious epistle was written in a species of half-text, which did not seem altogether unfamiliar to me. So impressed was I with the idea that I went over to the prison and had a look at the copy-books of most of those in the school or who had been in it lately. I did not come on any resembling it, and it was not till Benjie Blunt came up to me on the street a few days later that the possible connection between him and the curious writing flashed upon my mind.
“Now, I remember—Benjie used to write a hand something like that,” was my thought when he addressed me, and I fully expected that Benjie’s first words to me would have a reference to the policeman Bain, a most sterling and tried man, in whom we had implicit confidence.
Benjie took a long time to work round to the subject uppermost on his mind, but at length he said—
“I know you’re always on the look-out for hints, and you’re so kind and attentive when I’m in you’re hands that I couldn’t help coming to you with what I’ve found out.”
I grinned unfeelingly into his solemnly puckered-up face.
“O Benjie, try that on somebody else,” I rejoined, with a look which must have convinced him that I was wide awake to his clumsy flattery. “Out with what you’ve to say; I’ll find out your motive afterwards, if it’s of any importance.”
“What’s it worth to put the thief in your hands?” he asked with cunning look, which could not possibly be described on paper.
“It’s worth about as much as the thief or yourself—nothing,” I calmly answered.