“That has rather an odd sound,” said he. “Where am I to transact my business?”
“There are many places where it may be done without attracting attention. But the best of these perhaps is the ‘Wheat Sheaf,’ an inn just above the city.”
“I don’t quite understand it,” said the other. “Will you be kind enough to explain why all this secrecy is necessary?”
“Secrecy,” and the weazened little man made a wide gesture, “is never a bad thing. And while some of the reasons for this exercise of it are most obvious, others are as unknown to myself as to you. I am not a person of sufficient consequence to warrant my being told any but the outside facts. If you desire to learn more, you’d do well to inquire of those who are better informed.” He seemed about to take his departure at this, but paused. “Shall we say the ‘Wheat Sheaf,’ then, to-morrow night at nine?”
“If it is necessary,” said the young man.
“Believe me, it is necessary, or I should not have been sent to you.”
The little man walked haltingly to the rail, climbed upon it and then upon the wharf.
However, he had not gone a dozen yards when he was halted. A stout, choleric old gentleman came stamping along; he had an oaken staff in his hand, and its tip rang angrily upon the stones.
“Ah, Mr. Dana,” cried he, “well met.” He paused before the dry little man and seemed to bristle with indignation. “I have been given to understand, sir, that the ‘Sea Gull’ is not permitted to sail.”
“I am sorry to say, Mr. Camp,” replied the other earnestly, “that your information is quite correct.”