Three-quarters of an hour sufficed to convey Gorman from the east to the west end of London. Here he sought the well-known precincts of Poorthing Lane, and entered the shop of Mr David Boone.
That worthy received him with a look of glad surprise; but with a feeling of the deepest misery.
“Anyone inside?” asked Gorman.
“No,” said Boone, “’cept the boy. I’ll call him to mind the shop, and then we can be alone.”
As Gorman did not vouchsafe a reply, but walked straight into the little room behind the shop, Boone called the boy, and bade him mind the shop, while he held private consultation with his friend.
The shop-boy enjoyed the name of Robert Roddy. He was a soft-faced, washed-out youth, with a disposition to wink both eyes in a meek manner. Rough-spoken people called him an idiot, but Roddy was not quite such an idiot as they took him for. He obeyed his master’s mandate by sitting down on a tall stool near the window, and occupied himself in attempting to carve a human face on the head of a walking-stick.
“Glad to see you, Mr Gorman,” said Boone, seating his tall body on a low stool at the side of his friend, who, with his hat on, had thrown himself into an armchair, and spread out both legs before the fire. “Very glad to see you, indeed, in my—little sanctum, my withdrawing room, if I may venture to use the name, to which I retire during the intervals of business.”
Boone said this with an air of pleasantry, and smiled, but his visitor did not encourage him.
“Pretty long intervals, I should suppose,” he growled, pulling out his pipe and lighting it.
Boone admitted, with a sigh, that they were, and observed that trade was extremely dull—astonishingly dull.