"It ain't often," replied the man, puffing away contentedly, "that I get a chance to try a swell's tobacco and liquor. That's prime stuff, sir. I feel more like talking now."
"Then be quick about it. What is your business? And as you have the advantage of me at present, it would be better if you began by stating your name."
"My name," the man paused half a second, "is Timmins—Joe Timmins. It ain't likely that you—"
"No; I never heard it," Nevill interrupted. He sat down at the other side of the table, and endeavored to hide his anxiety and impatience. "I can't spare you much time," he added.
"Sure there ain't nobody within earshot?"
"Quite sure. Make your mind easy."
Mr. Joe Timmins—alias Noah Hawker—expressed his satisfaction by a nod. He produced a paper from his pocket, and slowly unfolded it.
"If you will kindly read that," he said.
Nevill took the document curiously. It consisted of half a dozen pages of writing, well-worded and grammatical, but done by a wretched, scrawling hand, and embellished with numerous blots and smudges. From the first he grasped its import, and as he read on to the end his face grew pale and his hands shook. With a curse he started to his feet and made a step toward the grate, where the embers of a coal fire lingered. Then, dropping down again, he laughed bitterly.
"Of course this is only a copy?" he exclaimed.