Furneaux drew the corks out of both bottles, and sniffed the contents. Then he tasted, with much tongue-smacking.
“Um!” he said. “Stale laudanum, for a start. I expected as much. Bought by the gallon and sold by the drop. Is that the dogcart with my pictures?”
“Yes.”
“Hail your man. He can give me a lift.”
“But there’s lots of things I want to ask you—”
“Probably. I’m here to put questions, not to give information. I’ve gone a long way beyond the official tether already. If you’ve a grain of sense, and I think you’re not altogether lacking in that respect, you’ll keep a close tongue, and act on the tips thrown out. You’ll find pearls of price among the rubbish-heap of my remarks generally. Good-by. See you on Wednesday.”
And Furneaux climbed into the cart, holding the pictures so that they would not rattle, and perhaps loosen the old gilded frames.
“Drive me to the chemist’s” he said to the groom; within five minutes, he was explaining his purchase to Siddle, and requesting, as a favor, that the latter should wrap the set of prints in brown paper, making two parcels, and tying each securely, so that they might be dispatched by train.
Siddle examined one, the first of the series, which depicted the Aylesbury Steeplechase.
“Rather good,” he said. “Where did you pick them up?”