“See here,” he said, holding the letter close to his own eyes, still upside down, and evidently reading from memory: “‘If Mr Frederick Martin will c–call at this office any day next week between 10 an’ 12, h–he will ’ear suthin’ to his ad–advantage. Bounce and Brag, s’licitors.’ There!”
“But you ain’t Fred Martin,” said Bryce, with a look of supreme contempt, for he had arrived at the quarrelsome stage of drunkenness.
“Right you are,” said Martin; “but I’m his uncle. Same name c–’cause his mother m–married her c–cousin; and there ain’t much difference ’tween Dick and Fred—four letters, both of ’em—so if I goes wi’ the letter, an’ says, ‘I’m Fred Martin,’ w’y, they’ll hand over the blunt, or the jewels, or wotiver it is, to me—d’ee see?”
“No, I don’t see,” returned Bryce so irritatingly that his comrade left the confidential stage astern, and requested to know, with an affable air, when Bryce lost his eyesight.
“When I first saw you, and thought you worth your salt,” shouted Bryce, as he brought his fist heavily down on the table.
Both men were passionate. They sprang up, grappled each other by the throat, and fell on the floor. In doing so they let the letter fall. It fluttered to the ground, and Lockley, quietly picking it up, put it in his pocket.
“You’d better look after them,” said Lockley to the landlord, as he paid his reckoning, and went out.
In a few minutes he stood in Widow Mooney’s hut, and found Isa Wentworth already there.
“I’m glad you sent me here,” said the girl, “for Mrs Mooney has gone out—”
She stopped and looked earnestly in Lockley’s face. “You’ve been to the Blue Boar,” she said in a serious tone.