“I’ll make a note of it,” said Mr. Thorpe. “You don’t want to come with us, I s’pose? You’d better not be seen p’raps?”
“You leave me to look after meself,” she answered.
“Come over and ’ave a cup of tea along with our female searcher,” suggested Mr. Thorpe.
“Tea be ’anged,” she said. “I shall want something stronger than tea when my paddy’s over.”
“Daresay we shall be able to get you a sovereign or two for this job if you keep yourself quiet.”
“Keep your money,” she cried angrily. “All I want is to be at the Sessions when he comes up and to watch her face.”
Bobbie crept from his doorway. Once in Kingsland Road, he flew along swiftly, slipping in and out of the crowd, and jumping a linen basket, to the astonishment of the two women who were carrying it. He scuttled through the dwarf posts and down Ely Place, knocking over one or two children toddling about in the way, and reaching the house so exhausted that he could only just give the usual whistle at the key-hole. Mr. Leigh opened the door, and seeing him took off the chain. The boy, staggering into the dimly-lighted passage leaned against the wall.
“Bat Miller in?” he panted.
“What’s the row?” demanded Mr. Leigh concernedly. Bobbie explained in a hurried, detached, spasmodic way. Mr. Leigh took a pair of scissors from his pocket, and, glancing at a slip of looking-glass, cut off the whiskers which fringed his face.
“Tell the wife,” said Mr. Leigh, quietly snipping, “to meet me at Brenchley, if she gets clear. Tell her not to make no fuss.” He took his overcoat from the peg, and a cloth cap with ear flaps. “Come straight here ’ave you?” he asked.