“How can you say so, Mr. Brown?” returned Mr. Sloman, angrily.
The host directed a meaning look at his visitor.
“Slowey, how soft you are! Well, don’t fear; in England there’s not a better hand at cracking a skull than Josh Levi; and at the knife—the creature’s too weak for anything but light work—I’ll back Frank for a hundred.”
“Damn it, don’t tell me particulars,” exclaimed the lawyer. “I wish all was over; I safe in Mary Axe; and you with your four hundred snug in pocket.”
“Is the cash right?” inquired Mr. Brown.
Mr. Sloman deigned no reply; but, producing a leather case from his side-pocket, he reckoned over nine bank notes.
“I don’t know a nicer thing to look at, than a clean hundred-pound flimsey fresh from the Bank,” observed Mr. Sloman, playfully.
Suddenly the street-bell rang, and a low and peculiar whistle followed the sound. Mr. Brown started.
“By Heaven! that’s not Frank’s signal,” lie exclaimed. “Something is wrong, or the hunchback would be the first to bring intelligence.”
Another, and a louder ring, told the impatience of the midnight visitor; and Mr. Brown descended to the lower story to ascertain who it was that at this late hour required admission. The answers from without satisfied him that the stranger might be let in. The chains rattled; the bolts were drawn; again the door was carefully secured; and Mr. Brown returned to his state apartment, accompanied by a very repulsive-looking gentleman, namely, the swarthy Israelite, who earlier in the evening had been reconnoitred by the captain and his companion while lying perdu in Mr. Spicer’s lumber-room.