Soon ceasing to think about it, he talked of those detractors of his—the people who, like Mr. Verinder and fellow members at the club, spoke of “travellers’ tales,” “Baron Munchausen,” and so on.
“It’s all true, Emmie dear; every word that I have ever uttered or put down on paper. What dolts! Because they read at school that Patagonians are a large race of men, if you tell them of an older smaller race not quite extinct—And those temples, too! Huge masses of masonry welded to the cliffs and rocks”; and he waved his hand above his head, as if to indicate the vastness and grandeur of these sacred remains. “Well, I couldn’t bring them away with me, could I? I couldn’t prove their existence by carting them home to the Geographical Society in Saville Row. No, believe me, the Andes still holds marvellous secrets. Yes,” he added triumphantly. “One little secret I have here, in my pocket,” and he tapped his chest. Then he stopped suddenly. “By the way, we’ve done our work. Why shouldn’t I go there now?” And he smiled at her fondly while he brought out a notebook. “I spoke of the labyrinth of London. But you, as a born Londoner, ought to know your way about. Where’s Hatton Garden?”
Miss Verinder had to confess that she did not know.
“There’s a merchant there I want to see.” After consulting his notebook, he hailed a hansom cab, with the usual ceremony handed her into it, and followed her.
“Hatton Garden,” he called to the driver, and gave the number of the house he wished to visit.
“Hatton Garden! Did you say Hatton Garden?” asked the driver, in surprised tones, through the roof trap.
“Yes. Drive on,” said Dyke authoritatively.
The man drove on for perhaps fifty yards, and then pulled up his horse.
“Drive on,” said Dyke, again, opening the trap-door. “What have you stopped for?”