“So can I,” agreed Jack Herring. “Keep where you are, all of you. ’Twould be a pity to fool it.”
The Autolycus Club waited. Jack Herring re-entered the room.
“One of the saddest stories I have ever heard in all my life,” explained Jack Herring in a whisper. “Poor girl left Derbyshire this morning to come and see her brother; found him out—hasn’t been seen at his lodgings since three o’clock; fears something may have happened to him. Landlady gone to Romford to see her mother; strange woman in charge, won’t let her in to wait for him.”
“How sad it is when trouble overtakes the innocent and helpless!” murmured Somerville the Briefless.
“That’s not the worst of it,” continued Jack. “The dear girl has been robbed of everything she possesses, even of her umbrella, and hasn’t got a sou; hasn’t had any dinner, and doesn’t know where to sleep.”
“Sounds a bit elaborate,” thought Porson.
“I think I can understand it,” said the Briefless one. “What has happened is this. He’s dressed up thinking to have a bit of fun with us, and has come out, forgetting to put any money or his latchkey in his pocket. His landlady may have gone to Romford or may not. In any case, he would have to knock at the door and enter into explanations. What does he suggest—the loan of a sovereign?”
“The loan of two,” replied Jack Herring.
“To buy himself a suit of clothes. Don’t you do it, Jack. Providence has imposed this upon us. Our duty is to show him the folly of indulging in senseless escapades.”
“I think we might give him a dinner,” thought the stout and sympathetic Porson.