“You are aware, then, of the character of the man you have employed?” I continued, with undisguised disappointment.
“I believe him to be a scoundrel,” he faintly and somewhat wearily answered. “I know nothing of his private character, and care less.”
“Then we are to conclude that we have made a mistake in arresting him, and that we have no just cause for detaining him?” I pursued, trying in vain to read in his face the real secret.
“Exactly. You have made a mistake, but it was a natural one on your part, seeing, as you say, that the man is a professional criminal,” he dejectedly responded. “By the way,” he added, with more animation, “I wonder that a man like you does not lay such a rascal by the heels. Is he too clever for even you?”
“That remains to be seen,” I dryly returned. “He will not be at liberty a moment longer than I can help.”
“I am glad to hear you say that,” said the gentleman, shaking me warmly by the hand. “When you do get him, and ensure his conviction, come to me and I will put a £5 note in your hand as an honorarium.”
“Honour among thieves!” was my contemptuous thought. “There is some bond of villainy between the two, and now this man wishes to get rid of his leech. I wonder if I could not take them both?”
I left the house, after bidding Mr Bannister a not over-gracious farewell, and Peter Hart was promptly set at liberty, with much crowing and exultation on his part. The next day or two I spent chiefly in trying to guess at the nature of the hold which Peter exercised over the gentleman. That he was the spider and Mr Bannister the fly, I felt certain after making some inquiries regarding the character of the latter. Mr Bannister was spoken of by all as the soul of honour and goodness. I was more than disappointed at losing Peter—I was angry; for in leaving he did not scruple to say some nasty things regarding my capacity, and to hint in a lordly fashion that any other attempt to interfere with him would be followed by a letter “from his lawyer.” I replied, in the irritation of the moment, that I should probably interfere with him before long in such a way that his lawyer would be powerless to help him or injure us. I ought not to have spoken so rashly, but then I felt savage, and, as good luck would have it, the very boldness of the threat added to my reputation when the spider-devourer had adjusted things nicely to my hands. Thus many of us live—continually tottering between a great success and a great failure. To the spider-devourer I now come, though, of course, I did not at first recognise him in that character.
Not many days after Peter’s release I was accosted at the head of Leith Walk by a sharp-witted fellow, pretty well known to me, named Dick McQueen. Dick was not a thief, but one who lived chiefly by billiards and cards. He had been ostler, waiter, boots, groom, cabdriver, and I know not all what by turns, and was about as keen a blade as it is possible to become by continually rubbing edges with others as sharp. He was always poor, and I think was partly supported by relatives at a distance.
“I believe you said you’d take Peter Hart before long,” he said to me, after some of that preliminary talk which conjurers and men of the world use to throw one off his guard.