“Jim,” I whispered, “look at Trent. Bet you what you please he was expecting this.”
“Yes,” was the reply, “there’s some blame’ thing going on here”; and he renewed his bid.
The figure had run up into the neighbourhood of a thousand when I was aware of a sensation in the faces opposite, and, looking over my shoulder, saw a very large, bland, handsome man come strolling forth and make a little signal to the auctioneer.
“One word, Mr. Borden,” said he; and then to Jim, “Well, Pink, where are we up to now?”
Pinkerton gave him the figure. “I ran up to that on my own responsibility, Mr. Longhurst,” he added, with a flush. “I thought it the square thing.”
“And so it was,” said Mr. Longhurst, patting him kindly on the shoulder, like a gratified uncle. “Well, you can drop out now; we take hold ourselves. You can run it up to five thousand; and if he likes to go beyond that, he’s welcome to the bargain.”
“By-the-bye, who is he?” asked Pinkerton. “He looks away down.”
“I’ve sent Billy to find out”; and at the very moment Mr. Longhurst received from the hands of one of the expensive young gentlemen a folded paper. It was passed round from one to another till it came to me, and I read: “Harry D. Bellairs, Attorney-at-Law; defended Clara Varden: twice nearly disbarred.”
“Well, that gets me!” observed Mr. Longhurst. “Who can have put up a shyster[3] like that? Nobody with money, that’s a sure thing. Suppose you tried a big bluff? I think I would, Pink. Well, ta-ta! Your partner, Mr. Dodd? Happy to have the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir”; and the great man withdrew.
“Well, what do you think of Douglas B.?” whispered Pinkerton, looking reverently after him as he departed. “Six foot of perfect gentleman and culture to his boots.”