“Bob Brettle has finished his time and got back here.”
That, then, was Dick’s business with me. Had he quarrelled with the convict and ticket-of-leave man he named? I knew perfectly well that the reckless Bob Brettle had returned, for he had duly reported himself to us, as bound by his ticket-of-leave, but I thought proper to say innocently in reply—
“Has he, really?”
“Yes,” continued Dick, with animation; “I’ve seen him often, and know where he hangs out—Brierly’s, in the Grassmarket. Is a straight tip of any use to you?”
I looked at the rascal, and if the imp had only had the sense of an owl he would have seen how contemptuous was the glance. But it is given to some natures to be perfectly unconscious of the loathing they inspire, and Dick’s was one of these.
“I’ll tell you when I get it,” was my reply. I did not expect Dick to give me any news or promp me to anything that was not likely to benefit himself.
“Well, you’ll soon have Bob Brettle in your hands again,” said Dick, button-holing me with an affectionate caress, which made my flesh creep. “He’s planning something now. I don’t know what the job is, but it’s something dashing and daring. If he was took at the same old game, wouldn’t it be ten years this time?”
“What was his last term?” I asked, affecting ignorance.
“Seven.”
“Well, you don’t need to ask, knowing that,” I said, making Dick uncomfortable with a steady stare.