“I think it must be I’m getting old, Mr. Thorpe, sir.”
“That’ll grow on you,” said the plain clothes man, “if you aren’t careful.”
“I can’t remember names,” declared Mr. Leigh, complainingly; “I can’t remember faces; I can’t remember any mortal thing.”
“Ah,” said the detective, “pity!”
To Bobbie, as they walked home to Ely Place, Mr. Leigh appeared slightly more communicative, counselling the boy to behave decorously if ever he should find himself in trouble.
“Inside or outside,” declared Mr. Leigh, “it pays in the long run.”
At Ely Place everything was in train, the day being special and the evening also out of the ordinary, for a visit to the theatre. Some question arose in regard to the wisdom of leaving the house alone, but young Mrs. Miller said that she wasn’t going to be left out of it if Bat were going, the Duchess said it wasn’t often she got the chance, Mr. Leigh said he didn’t see no particular harm in going to the play, Bat Miller said that too much work told on a man; that the Fright would be safe enough, and it would make a nice change for all of them. So they all went. Bat Miller locked the door with great care, and in five minutes they were finding their way up the broad stone stairs of the Britannia with a struggling, anxious, noisy, good-tempered crowd.
“Right sort,” suggested Mr. Leigh, in a whisper to Bat Miller, as they forced their way to the pay box.
“I’m sure,” agreed Bat Miller. “Don’t want no fuss ’ere.” He pinched the ear of a dark young woman in front of him.
“I’ll have your black eyes,” he said admiringly.