"Of course I am."
"Oh! then here's the letter, and you're to see if it's all right."
"All right," said Detective Jones, opening the note and glancing at its contents; "tell the gentleman I'll be there. Here's for you, young Codlings," dropping a half-crown into the boy's hand.
"Five shillings, and not a stiver less, is my fare."
"Here you are then, you small imp of iniquity;" and another coin of similar value found its way into the ragamuffin's pocket.
He cut a caper, turned head over heels, and was gone.
And now Jones tore on breathlessly till we were safe out of Blue-Anchor Lane and had reached Paradise Row, where a policeman was standing at the corner. Jones took him aside for a minute, and then rejoined me.
"We'll hail the first cab, sir, in Spa Road, and drive to your home, if you've no objection."
This we did; and as soon as we had started he took a small candle-lantern from his pocket, lit it, and then handed me the note to read which he had taken from the boy. It contained but few words; no names used, no address, no signature, and simply desired the person addressed to meet the writer the following day at the usual place and hour. What clue was there in that to the dark mystery we were bent on solving? Only this, and I put it into words:
"Great heavens! it is Lister Wilmot's handwriting!"