“How’s that?” I inquired.
“Well, sir, I found the place all right, and no mistake,” said he. “But I tell you what gave me a blue fright! There was a customer standing by the door, and I reckonised him! Who do you think it was, Mr. Anne? W’y, that same Red-Breast—him I had breakfast with near Aylesbury.”
“You are sure you are not mistaken?” I asked.
“Certain sure,” he replied. “Not Mr. Lavender, I don’t mean, sir; I mean the other party. ‘Wot’s he doing here?’ says I. ‘It don’t look right.’”
“Not by any means,” I agreed.
I walked to and fro in the apartment reflecting. This particular Bow Street runner might be here by accident; but it was to imagine a singular play of coincidence that he, who had met Rowley and spoken with him in the “Green Dragon,” hard by Aylesbury, should be now in Scotland, where he could have no legitimate business, and by the doors of the bank where Rowley kept his account.
“Rowley,” said I, “he didn’t see you, did he?”
“Never a fear,” quoth Rowley. “W’y, Mr. Anne, sir, if he ’ad, you wouldn’t have seen me any more! I ain’t a hass, sir!”
“Well, my boy, you can put that receipt in your pocket. You’ll have no more use for it till you’re quite clear of me. Don’t lose it, though; it’s your share of the Christmas-box: fifteen hundred pounds all for yourself.”
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Anne, sir, but wot for?” said Rowley.