He accompanied me himself to the front door. As we stood, speaking a last word, a middle-aged man, with keen eyes and spare frame, dressed as a workman, came up with a brisk step. Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar met the smile on the man's face as he glanced up in passing.
"Arkwright!" he exclaimed. "I hardly knew you. Some sharp case in hand, I conclude?"
"Just so, Serjeant; but I hope to bring it to earth before the day's over. You know——"
Then the man glanced at me and came to a pause.
"However, I mustn't talk about it now, so good-afternoon, Serjeant." And thus speaking, he walked briskly onwards.
"I wonder what he has in hand? I think he would have told me, Charles, but for your being present," cried my uncle, looking after him. "A keen man is Arkwright."
"Arkwright!" I echoed, the name now impressing itself upon me. "Surely not Arkwright the famous detective!"
"Yes, it is. And he has evidently got himself up as a workman to further some case that he has in hand. He knew you, Charles; depend upon that; though you did not know him."
A fear, perhaps a foolish one, fell upon me. "Uncle Stillingfar," I breathed, "can his case be Tom's? Think you it is he who is being run to earth?"
"No, no. That is not likely," he answered, after a moment's consideration. "Anyway, you must use every exertion to find him, for his stay in London is full of danger."