Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 8).djvu/68

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MARTIN HEWITT, INVESTIGATOR.
67

area, and suddenly a man, hatless, and with a sleeve of his coat nearly torn away, burst through the door, and up the area steps, pursued by two others. I had barely time to observe that one of the pursuers carried a revolver, and that both hesitated and retired on seeing that several people were about the street, when Hewitt, gripping my arm and exclaiming, "That's our man!" started at a run after the fugitive.

We turned the next corner and saw the man thirty yards before us, walking, and pulling up his sleeve at the shoulder, so as to conceal the rent. Plainly he felt safe from further molestation.

"That's Sim Wilks," Hewitt explained, as we followed, "the 'juce av a foine jintleman' who got Leamy to carry his bag, and the man who knows where the Quinton ruby is, unless I am more than usually mistaken. Don't stare after him, in case he looks round. Presently, when we get into the busier streets, I shall have a little chat with him."

But for some time the man kept to the back streets. In time, however, he emerged into the Buckingham Palace Road, and we saw him stop and look at a hat-shop. But after a general look over the window and a glance in at the door, he went on.

"Good sign," observed Hewitt; "got no money with him—makes it easier for us."

In a little while Wilks approached a small crowd gathered about a woman fiddler. Hewitt touched my arm, and a few quick steps took us past our man and to the opposite side of the crowd. When Wilks emerged he met us coming in the opposite direction.

"What, Sim!" burst out Hewitt, with apparent delight. "I haven't piped your mug[1] for a stretch[2]; I thought you'd fell.[3] Where's your cady?"[4]

Wilks looked astonished and suspicious. "I don't know you," he said. "You've made a mistake."

Hewitt laughed. "I'm glad you don't know me," he said. "If you don't, I'm pretty sure the reelers[5] won't. I think I've faked my mug pretty well, and my clobber,[6] too. Look here: I'll stand you a new cady. Strange blokes don't do that, eh?"

Wilks was still suspicious. "I don't know what you mean," he said. Then, after a pause, he added, "Who are you, then?"

Hewitt winked and screwed his face genially aside. "Hooky!" he said. "I've had a lucky touch[7] and I'm Mr. Smith till I've melted the pieces.[8] You come and damp it."

"I'm off," Wilks replied. "Unless you're pal enough to lend me a quid," he added, laughing.

"I am that," responded Hewitt, plunging his hand in his pocket. "I'm flush, my boy, flush, and I've been wetting it pretty well to-day. I feel pretty jolly now, and I shouldn't wonder if I went home cannon.[9] Only a quid? Have two, if you want 'em—or three—there's plenty more, and you'll do the same for me some day. Here y'are."

Hewitt had, of a sudden, assumed the whole appearance, manners, and bearing of a slightly elevated rowdy. Now he pulled his hand from his pocket and extended it, full of silver, with five or six sovereigns interspersed, toward Wilks.

"I'll have three quid," Wilks said, with decision, taking the money; "but I'm blowed if I remember you. Who's your pal?"

Hewitt jerked his head in my direction, winked, and said in a low voice, "He's all Illustration of Hewitt, with slack face and pose, extending his hand toward a doubtful man, with Brett in the background
"Extended it, full of silver."

  1. ↑ Seen your face.
  2. ↑ A year.
  3. ↑ Been imprisoned.
  4. ↑ Hat.
  5. ↑ Police.
  6. ↑ Clothes.
  7. ↑ Robbery.
  8. ↑ Spent the money.
  9. ↑ Drunk.
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