“Oh, passable as to that,” was the somewhat grudging reply. Mr Whitmore himself was very ugly.
“Did he ever put on your clothes—that is, wear them when you were not using them yourself?”
“Oh, yes; the beggar had impudence enough for anything.”
“And your jewellery, and watch, too, I suppose?”
“Well, I don’t know as to that—perhaps he did. I could believe him capable of anything that was impudent—coolest rascal I ever met. I tell you, Mr—Mr—Mr McFadden—I beg your pardon, McGadden—ah, I’m not good at remembering names—I tell you, I’ve an idea; just struck me, and you’re as welcome to it as if it were your own. P’r’aps that rascal Atkinson has ordered those things, and got them when they were sent home. Rather smart of me to think of that, eh?”
“Very smart,” I answered, with great emphasis, while his valet grinned behind a coat. “The affinity of great minds is shown in the fact that the same idea struck me. Can you help me to Atkinson’s present address?”
He could. Although he had been wearied and disgusted with the fellow himself, he had not only given Atkinson a written character of a high order, but personally recommended him to one of his acquaintances with whom, he presumed, the man was still serving. I took down the address and left for Moray Place, taking the lad Price with me. When we came to the house a most distinguished-looking individual opened the door—much haughtier and more dignified than a Lord of State—and while he was answering my inquiries, the lad Price gave me a suggestive nudge. When I quickly turned in reply and bent my ear, he whispered—
“That’s like the man that took the parcel from me at Whitmore’s.”
“Like him? Can you swear it is him?”
The lad took another steady look at the haughty flunkey, and finally shook his head and said, “No, I cannot swear to him, but it is like him.”