CHAPTER XVIII.
MOLLY
I continued the conversation.
"That must be a long time ago, Barbara?"
"Oh, yes, sir; ever so long ago."
"What was the name of her master?"
"I don't remember, sir."
"If you heard it, would you remember it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Was it Mr. Nesbit?"
"That's the name, sir. 'E 'ad a daughter, sech a nice young lady, Molly told me."
"Miss Beatrice Nesbit?"
"That's 'er, sir. Molly was so fond of 'er, and she liked Molly, too."
"Do you know, Barbara, what became of Miss Beatrice?"
"No, sir; do you?"
I evaded the question. "Can you read?" I asked.
"Large letters, when they're wrote plain, sir."
"You can't read newspapers?"
"No, sir."
"When Molly went away-we will speak about that presently-did nobody tell you that something had happened in this house?"
"No, sir; I didn't speak about Molly or the 'ouse to nobody, and nobody spoke to me. Wot did 'appen, sir?"
"Never mind just now. It is for me to ask questions."
"I beg yer pardon, sir."
"No need, Barbara. Where and how did you live, my dear, while Molly was in service here?"
"It's 'ard to say, sir. I lived anywhere and any'ow. If it 'adn't been for Molly I don't think I'd 'ave lived at all. She used to say, used Molly, 'One day we'll live together, Barbara. When yer grows up, per'aps Miss Beatrice 'll give yer a place with 'er. Then we shall be in the same 'ouse, and we'll be as 'appy as the day's long.' The day aint come yet, sir."
"When Molly worked here used you to come and see her?"
"On the sly, sir. Mr. Nesbit, Molly sed, wouldn't allow no followers, and nobody else come to the 'ouse that didn't 'ave no business there, so I 'ad to come unbeknown to 'im. One night I wos in the kitching when Molly 'eard 'im coming down. She 'id me quick be'ind the clothes 'orse, as 'ad some things drying. It was lucky for me and Molly that he didn't ketch sight of me, or he'd 'ave bundled us both out. My 'eart wos in my mouth all the time."
"You saw Mr. Nesbit?"
"Yes, sir; I peeped through the things and sor 'im."
"A nice looking gentleman, Barbara?"
"Quite the other, sir; but 'e spoke smooth to Molly."
"Did you ever see Miss Beatrice?"
"Once, sir, the same way, and I think she knew I wos 'iding, but she never sed nothink. She was the nicest looking young lady I ever sor."
"Tell me about Molly going away."
"She sed she was going into the country with 'er master and Miss Beatrice, and that she wouldn't be away long. She give me some money, and promised to send me some more every week, but I aint 'eerd nothink of 'er from that day to this. There wos Mrs. Simpson, sir; she let me sleep in a corner of 'er room. She wos allus 'ard up, Mrs. Simpson wos, and two weeks after Molly wos gone she got into trouble, and went away, I don't know where to, and I'd no place to put my 'ead in. I walked about the streets and slep' in the park, and then I thought I'd come 'ere and wait for Molly. There wos nothink else for it, 'cause Mrs. Simpson 'ad cut 'er lucky, and Molly wouldn't know where else to look for me. It wos orfle lonesome 'ere at fust, and I wos frightened out of my life almost; but I got used to it after a bit, and it wos a slice of luck, wosn't it, sir, that I found a place to sleep in without being arsked to pay no rent? Then there wos the coal cellar pritty well full of coals, and lots of wood to make a fire with. Daytime I'd go out selling matches, begging, doing anythink to make a honest penny, and it wosn't easy to do that, I can tell yer. But 'ere I am, no better off and no wus since I begun, and never found out till to-night."
"You must have managed very cleverly, Barbara."
"Oh, they don't make 'em much artfuller nor me," said the poor girl rather proudly. It was a pitiful boast from one who had suffered such hardships, and who, after years of struggle, presented so lamentable an appearance. "I aint told yer all, though," she continued eagerly. "I don't keep no count of the days 'xcept with bits of sticks-one stick, Monday, two sticks, Tuesday, three sticks, Wednesday, up to six sticks, Satterday, and then I know to-morrer's Sunday, and I begin all over again. Weeks I don't know 'ow to reckon, and that's why I can't tell 'ow long Molly's been away. I dessay it was three months when a Satterday night come-not the last by a good many-and I got 'ome as 'ungry as 'ungry could be, and not a ha'penny to get grub with. So wot do I do but prowl about on the chance of finding somethink that 'll 'elp me on. Molly used to sleep in the basement, next to the kitching, and there's a cupboard in the room. Wot 'yer think I found in that there cupboard on the top shelf, that I 'ad to stand on two chairs to git to? A wooden money-box, sir, that rattled as I shook it up. There wos letters outside wrote large by Molly, 'For Barbara.' Yer might 'ave knocked me down with a feather when I sor it, and I did tumble off the chairs and 'urt myself, but I 'ad the money box in my 'and for all that. It wos locked, and there wos no key, but I soon prised it open, and there it was, 'arf full of coppers that Molly'd been saving up for me, else she wouldn't 'ave wrote 'For Barbara' outside. Wosn't that good of Molly, sir?"
"Indeed it was," I replied.
"I counted it out-six and tenpence, no less, sir, and I kissed the box, and the writing, and the money too, and I only wanted Molly alongside of me to make me as 'appy as the day's long. It lasted me a long while, that money did."
"Did you ever find any more?" I asked.
"No, sir, though I looked everywhere for it."
"Now, Barbara, can you tell me the name of the place your sister was going to with Mr. Nisbet and Miss Beatrice?"
"No, sir, she didn't know 'erself, she sed, but she promised to write to me-in large letters-directly she got there."
"Where did she say she would send the letter?'
"To the house that Mrs. Simpson lived in, sir."
"You remained in that house two weeks after Molly went away?"
"Yes, sir."
"And no letter came?"
"No, sir."
"How can you be sure of that?"
"Mrs. Simpson didn't git none for me, sir-I'm sure of that, 'cause I know she wouldn't deceive me. Why should she? It wouldn't 'ave done 'er no good to keep it from me; and she wosn't one of that sort. Then, sir, there wos the two postmen as used to leave the letters in the street. I made bold to arsk both of 'em about it, 'Is there a letter for Barbara, wrote large, please?' I sed to them every day, and they sed no, there wosn't. 'You won't give it to no one else, will yer, please, when it comes?' I sed to them and they sed they wouldn't. After Mrs. Simpson wos gone I went to the street regularly, and 'ung about for the postmen, and arsked 'em if there wos a letter for Barbara, or if there'd been one, and they allus sed no, and that they'd keep it for me if they got 'old of it. But it never come, sir. I couldn't 'ave done nothink else to make sure of it, could I, sir?"
"You could do nothing more, Barbara; and you were very clever in doing what you did. Did you understand from Molly that she was going abroad?"
"Abroad, sir!" exclaimed Barbara, in manifest astonishment.
"Out of England, I mean."
"Oh, no, sir; she'd 'ave been sure to 'ave told me if she'd 'ad any idea of that. And she'd never 'ave done it, sir; she'd never 'ave gone so fur away from me!"
"I don't think she would, Barbara, if she had known it. Did she tell you she was going alone first, and that her master and Miss Beatrice were to follow afterward?"
"No, sir, they wos to go all together."
"Are you sure of that?"
"As sure as I can be, sir."
"You have given me sensible answers to all my questions, my dear. I noticed when you came upstairs with us that you kept your eyes closed. I suppose you were sleepy."
"It wasn't that, sir."
"What was the reason?"
"I was frightened, sir."
"Of what?"
Barbara looked around timidly, and drew closer to the fire. "There's shadders in this 'ere 'ouse," she said, in a low tone.
"There are shadows everywhere, Barbara," I answered, as Bob and I exchanged glances. "Tell us what you mean."
"I can't, sir; it's beyond me. I 'eerd once, permiscuous like, that there wos a 'ouse somewhere in these parts as wos 'aunted, and I sed to myself, 'It's this one.' Then I begun to feel shadders about. It's months and months since I've come 'igher than the kitching; I've been frightened to. It's allus as if somethink wos going to 'appen, and when you woke me up to-night I thought it 'ad."
"You began to feel shadows about, Barbara?"
"Yes, sir."
"But what have you seen?"
"Nothink, sir; but I know they're 'ere."
"Have you heard anything?"
"Only a shaking and rattling, sir."
"When there was a wind blowing, Barbara. From your description that must have been what you heard. Some of the window sashes are loose, and of course, in a high wind, they would make a noise." Barbara did not answer, but seemed dubious, and at the same time a little relieved. I glanced at the cat at my feet. "You have seen nothing to-night?"
"No, sir."
"You see no shadows now?"
"No, sir."
In these replies there was no such confirmation of my own strange experiences as I had expected, and hoped, to receive when she began to speak of shadows, and I ascribed her fears to the natural nervousness of a child living in a lonely house. They were no stronger than sensitive children living in comfortable homes, with parents and brothers and sisters around them, often suffer from. I had tired Barbara out with my string of questions; her eyelids were closing and opening; her head was nodding. In the silence that ensued she closed her eyes, and did not open them again. The child had fallen asleep.
CHAPTER XIX.
IMPORTANT INFORMATION
Bob and I conversed in whispers; but Barbara was sleeping so soundly that we might have spoken in our natural voices without fear of awaking her.
"What do you think of it, Bob?" I asked.
"I don't know what to think," he replied. "I only know one thing-that the child has spoken the truth."
"Of that there is no doubt," I said; "but what does it point to?"
He conveyed his answer in two words, "Foul play!"
I nodded.
"My own opinion, not newly formed, for I have had it all along; but what we have been told gives a new turn to it. And still," I added fretfully, "we are in the dark. Where can we look for direction as to the next step to be taken?"
"Has it not occurred to you," said Bob, "that it was singular that Mr. Nisbet should have had the body of his stepdaughter cremated instead of buried in the usual manner?"
"He may be an enthusiast on the subject of cremation," I observed. "Many eminent men advocate such a disposal of the dead."
"There is another answer to the question. We are both agreed that there has been foul play. If we are right, Mr. Nisbet, by having the body cremated, has effectually destroyed the most important evidence that could be sought against him."
"The doctor testified at the inquest to the cause of the young lady's death."
"Ah, the doctor. The inquiry agent gave you his name, I believe?"
"He did. It is Cooper."
"Might not something be gained from him?"
I caught at the suggestion.
"A good thought, Bob."
"We do not know," continued my shrewd adviser, "who this Dr. Cooper is, whether he is a practitioner of repute, and whether any relations of a confidential nature existed between him and Mr. Nisbet."
"You are letting in light," I said. "Go on."
"So far as you have gone you are ignorant of this doctor's standing. If he holds a good position, if he has an extensive practice, we shall obtain no assistance from him. No respectable medical man would run a risk for the sake of a bribe. As a rule, doctors are the kindest men in the world; but here and there you may meet with a backslider, or with one who has been careless in such a matter as this, or with one whose necessities lay him open to temptation. That is the extent of my suggestion; but it appears to me to be worth following up-on the off-chance, as sporting men say."
"It shall be followed up," I said. "To-morrow I will make inquiries concerning him. And now we will get a little sleep. It is not likely we shall be disturbed again."
We lay down in our clothes, and were awake betimes. But Barbara was up before us; and when we rose we found the room nicely tidied up, a bright fire burning, the kettle singing on the hob, and the table ready spread for breakfast.
"Bravo, Barbara," I said. "You are a handy little girl."
"I thought you'd like it done, sir," she said; "and I moved about very quiet so as not to wake yer. I slep' like a top, and I feel ever so much better than I did last night. But yer did give me a start, yer did, when yer come upon me in the kitching."
"You are not sorry for it now?"
"I'm glad, sir. It was a reg'lar slice of luck."
"You shall find it so. Any more shadows, Barbara?"
"No, sir. I never feel 'em in the daytime; it's only at night that I'm afeerd."
"We'll put a stop to all that, my girl. Let us get breakfast over; I dare say you're ready for it."
"That I am, sir. I'm allus ready to tuck in."
Despite the seriousness of our situation, we were quite a cheerful party. We had provided liberally, and we made a hearty meal, Barbara, to our mingled pity and admiration, proving herself a champion in that line. Had she been of colossal proportions instead of an attenuated mortal, literally all skin and bone, she could scarcely have eaten more. A full meal was a delightful novelty to her, and she greatly distinguished herself.
"I wouldn't call the queen my aunt," she declared, when we rose from the table, which we considered a very original remark, although its application was not exactly clear.
While she was clearing away the things and washing up, Bob and I had a consultation. It was decided that he should remain indoors with Barbara, and that I should go out to make inquiries for Dr. Cooper. During my absence it was his intention to thoroughly examine the house from top to bottom. He had the idea that he might light upon something that would furnish a clew; and as he had greater experience than I in untenanted houses, he was the better fitted for such a search.
It being Sunday, the facilities for seeking information were limited; but in the by-streets I found a common cigar shop open here and there, and I laid out a great many pennies without satisfactory result.
At length, however, I entered a poor little shop, which I was told had been established for several years. An elderly woman answered to my raps on the counter; and after spending sixpence with her, I led up to the important subject, and soon discovered that I was on the track. Dr. Cooper had lived in the neighborhood, not very far from her shop; but he had removed two or three years ago to another part of London. Was he a doctor in good practice? She could not say as to that. He was a poor man's doctor, and gave advice and medicine for a shilling. He had a large family, and did not pay his way. Then his business could not have been a flourishing one? Not at all; he had run away in debt to everybody-to her among the number. But by accident she found out his new place of business, and had served him with a county court summons. He had run up a bill of twenty-five shillings with her, and he pleaded that he was not in a position to pay it. Judgment was given for her, and he was ordered to pay half a crown a month, which, he said, was the utmost he could afford. The trouble she had to get her money! She had to threaten him over and over again, and at last succeeded in obtaining what was due to her.
"A bad lot, sir," she said. "Always drinking on the sly, and as fit to attend to sick people as my old cat there. If I was dying, and there was not another doctor in London, I wouldn't call him in."
Had she any objection to give me his address? Not the least objection. She ought to know it, as she had been there twenty times to get her money. It was in Theobald's Row, South Lambeth, when she saw him last; she did not remember the number, but there were not many houses in the Row, and I should have no difficulty in finding it; "if he hasn't run away again," she added.
I left the shop, thanking the chance that had led me to it. In the information I had gained there was pregnant matter for thought. That a wealthy gentleman like Mr. Oliver Nisbet should call in such a man in a case of life and death was something more than strange; it was in the highest degree suspicious, and I felt confident that some information of importance to my mission was to be elicited from one whose necessities, as Bob had observed, might lay him open to the temptation of a bribe. South Lambeth was a long way from the north of London; but so anxious was I to lose no time, that I determined to proceed there at once.
With this intention I walked into the wider thoroughfares to look for a cab, and was about to hail one when a man walking quickly toward me, stopped as we came close to each other, and accosted me.
"Why, Mr. Emery," he said, "I heard you were in Brighton."
It was Mr. Dickson, the private inquiry agent.
"I am in London, as you see," I replied. "Who told you I was in Brighton?"
"I learned it at your house two hours ago."
I groaned inwardly, thinking of what was in store for me if my good wife discovered that I was deceiving her.
"Did you see my wife?"
"No, a servant answered the bell, and said you had run down to the seaside for the day."
"I wished the business between us," I said rather severely, "to be kept secret. What took you to my house, Mr. Dickson?"
"Oh, there was no fear of my saying anything about the commission you gave me. I did not even leave my name." I breathed more freely. "I went to see you because I had something to tell you which I thought you would like to know immediately."
"What is it?"
"Mr. Nisbet is in London," replied Mr. Dickson.
CHAPTER XX.
DR. COOPER
I caught my breath. There was nothing strange in the information; for all I knew Mr. Nisbet might have been in London for years, as ignorant of my existence as, until lately, I had been of his; but the accidental discoveries of the last few hours seemed to me to be pregnant with important possibilities.
"I am glad you have lost no time in telling me," I said. "How did you discover it?"
"Almost by accident. I have a partner, whose methods are of the quiet order, I being the active worker in our business, and it is he who made the discovery-almost by accident, as I have said. Nisbet is not a very uncommon name, but tack Oliver to it, and it becomes exceptional. Yesterday there arrived from the Continent a gentleman bearing those two names, and he is now at the Hôtel Métropole."
This destroyed the hypothesis that Mr. Nisbet had been a constant resident in London since my introduction to the skeleton cat.
"From what part of the Continent?" I inquired.
"Lastly from Paris; but by way of Paris from any one of a hundred different places. Can you give me a personal description of the gentleman?"
"No," I replied, "I have never seen him; but I can obtain it for you."
"Do so, and let me have it as soon as possible. At present my partner is shadowing him, and he will not be lost sight of. You will never guess where I have just come from, Mr. Emery."
"I shall be glad to hear."
"In the course of such a business as ours," said Mr. Dickson, "we become acquainted with strange things, which, as a rule, we keep to ourselves, secrecy being an integral part of our operations. Some cases take hold of us, some do not, and I confess that my curiosity-a human weakness, you know-has been excited in this particular case. So, after leaving your house, the idea entered my mind of strolling to Lamb's Terrace and having a look at No. 79. That is where I have just come from."
"You have not been inside the house," I said, rather startled, as I thought of Bob and Barbara.
"How could I get inside," he retorted, "without the key? What a melancholy, Heaven-forsaken place! I will tell you what occurred to me, if you like."
"Yes, tell me."
"Just the spot for a crime, thought I as I wandered about; just the spot to carry out a deep-laid scheme in comparative safety. I have no wish to pry into your secrets, Mr. Emery; but one cannot help what comes unbidden into one's mind, and men engaged in such pursuits as mine are more open to suspicion than others. We see shadows behind locked doors, we work out theories in the dark, and sometimes we come upon unexpected results. However, it is no affair of mine, as my own personal interests are not involved in it."
"If they were," I hazarded, "you would follow it up."
"Undoubtedly. I could not possibly evade the duty, with three such links as a sudden death, a cremation instead of a burial, and a vast fortune on the issue."
"And if you were to add," I thought, "the experiences I have gone through, you would be still less inclined to rest till the mystery was unraveled." Aloud I said, "Do not let the matter flag for a few pounds. I am most anxious to work it out, if there is a possibility of doing so."
"It shall not flag. The mischief of it is, the most important clews are destroyed. Only through the principal agent can the crime-if one has been committed-be brought to light."
"Or through an accomplice," I suggested.
"Quite so. But where to look for this accomplice-there lies the difficulty. Still it is the unexpected that often happens. Well, good-day, Mr. Emery; I hope to hear from you to-morrow."
Theobald's Row, South Lambeth, if not so desolate a neighborhood as Lamb's Terrace, was sufficiently depressing in its general aspect to cause one to resolve to give it a wide berth unless special business called him to the spot. There were sad, melancholy railway arches which might serve for a chapter in a modern "Inferno"; there were timber yards stacked high with discolored lumber, which appeared to be piled up not for purposes of trade, but to add one more melancholy feature to a worn-out, dilapidated locality; there were workingmen's lodging houses, whose flat surface of stone walls resembled prisons in which every vestige of brightness in life was hopelessly entombed; there were rows of houses as hopeless and despairing, and as poverty-stricken and irremediably shabby; and there was the most leaden atmosphere of which even London could boast. The men, women, and children I saw there were in keeping with their surroundings; the youngsters were playing listlessly and with no heart in their games; the men smoked pipes and haunted street corners or wandered in and out the beer shops and public houses; the worn-faced women conversed jadedly and dispiritedly; and everywhere the spirit of discontent proclaimed itself. Even the dogs nosing the gutters were infected with the prevailing gloom.
In the center of Theobald's Row, which consisted of sixteen small houses, eight on each side, and all of a flat dead level, I came upon Dr. Cooper's place of business, a parlor window, with two large dust-covered bottles displayed therein, whose ghostly colors were green and red. Half a dozen ragged children were disporting themselves on the doorstep, and as I approached the shop a slatternly woman came to the door and swooped them all into the house. As she was turning to follow them I accosted her.
"Is Dr. Cooper at home?"
"What do you want of him?" she retorted.
"I wish to see him on a matter of business."
I had stepped into the shop, and as I looked around at the nearly empty shelves, dotted here and there with a few miserable fly-blown bottles, I thought that a man in search of health or of a remedy for a bodily ailment could not have found a more unlikely place for relief.
"Is it opening medicine?" said the woman. "I can serve you."
"My business is not professional," I replied.
She cast a suspicious glance at me, and I guessed that she supposed me to be a dun.
"It may be something of advantage to him," I observed.
She brightened up instantly.
"My husband is not in," she said; "but you may find him at the George."
"At the George?"
"Or the Green Dragon," she added.
"Where are they? Far from here?"
"Oh, no, not far; he has to keep himself handy in case he is called in anywhere. The George is at the corner of the next street, and the Green Dragon is at the opposite corner. If he is not at either of those places he is sure to be at the Britannia. Anybody will tell you where that is."
As I walked to "the corner of the next street" I could not help smiling at the idea of Dr. Cooper being so considerate as to pass his time in a public house, within convenient hail of his place of business, in case he might be "called in anywhere"; but I pitied those who needed his assistance in a case of sickness. He was not at the George, and I was advised to try the Green Dragon; he was not at the Green Dragon, and I was advised to try the Britannia; and at the Britannia I found him.
He was a washed-out, weedy man, with an inflamed countenance, and when I presented myself he was in the act of clinking pewter pots with some boon companions, who, according to my judgment, were standing treat to him. He drained his pot to the dregs, and turned it upside down on the counter, with a thirsty air about him notwithstanding the long draught he had just taken. I am not a teetotaler, nor an advocate of teetotalism, but it has always been a matter of regret to me that the persevering search for enlightenment on the part of the British public at the bottom of pewter pots does not lead to more encouraging results.
At the moment of my entrance he and his companions were discussing a criminal case which had excited great interest and had largely occupied the newspapers for several days past. It was a supposed case of poisoning, and the person charged-it was a woman-had been acquitted after a long trial. Her husband had been the victim; but the medical evidence was inconclusive, and she had been given the benefit of the doubt. The woman and her husband had been on proved bad terms, and she had much to gain by his death. There was a man in the case, the woman's lover, and there was a strong suspicion that he was implicated; but, guilty or not guilty, he was not arraigned because no direct evidence could be brought against him. Only on the previous night had the case been concluded, and the result was published in the Sunday morning's papers, the jury having been locked up for eight hours before they arrived at their verdict.
"She's escaped by the skin of her teeth," said one of the topers. "If I'd been on the jury she'd have had the rope."
"Law's law," said a half-tipsy Solon, "and justice is justice. I don't believe in hanging a woman upon presumption. My opinion is that he poisoned himself to get rid of her."
"That's a queer way of getting rid of a nuisance," was the reply. "Besides, there was no poison found in the body."
"You're all at sixes and sevens," said a third speaker. "The doctors disagreed, and the weight of evidence was in favor of the woman. She's as artful as you make 'em; but that's no reason for hanging her."
"The man was killed," persisted the first speaker. "He didn't die a natural death."
"Nothing was proved," said the third speaker, "and when nothing's proved you can't bring anyone in guilty. This is a free country, I believe."
What struck me in the expression of these opinions-if opinions they could be called-was their utterly illogical bearing. It was like a lot of weathercocks arguing; and when the half-tipsy Solon said, "Ask the doctor," they turned toward him, as though a direct question had been put to him, which he, as a weighty authority, could answer in a word, and thus settle the whole matter.
"What I say is," said Dr. Cooper thirstily and with indistinct utterance, "that there are more ways of killing a man than one."
"Ah," they all observed in effect, "Dr. Cooper knows."
What it was that Dr. Cooper knew with respect to the case was not very clear. What I knew, when I heard him speak, was that he was drunk. Quickly came to my mind the suggestion whether he would be of more service to me drunk than sober.
"Who's going to stand treat?" he inquired, with a nervous fingering of his pewter pot.
"Your turn, doctor," they said.
"If it's my turn," he replied pettishly, "you'll have to wait."
They laughed, and left him one by one. Then he asked for liquor across the counter; but the barman shook his head and devoted himself to ready-money customers. I saw my opportunity, and advancing toward him, asked if he would join me in a friendly glass.
"In a friendly glass," he said, "I would join Old Nick himself."
A declaration which, frank as it was, could scarcely be said to be a recommendation. It was a peculiar feature of Dr. Cooper's tipsy condition that, although his speech was thick and somewhat indistinct, he did not slur or clip his words, which denoted that he still preserved some control over himself.
"Beer or whisky, doctor?" I asked.
"Whisky for choice," he said. "Irish."
Whisky it was, and Irish; I spilled mine on the floor, and filled my glass with water. Dr. Cooper dealt with his as he dealt with the beer; it was evidently not his habit to take two bites at a cherry.
"Another?" I suggested.
"You're a gentleman," he said.
When he had disposed of this second portion in a similar manner to the first, I opened the ball, and inwardly took credit to myself for rather artful tactics.
"I came down this way, doctor," I said, "especially to see you."
He seized my wrist with one hand, and put the other into his waistcoat pocket, removing it immediately, however, with a husky cough and an angry shake of his head.
"No, no, doctor," I said, laughing, as he fumbled at my pulse, "I do not need professional advice to-day. The fact is, I have come to pay an old debt."
He retained my hand, as though to prevent my escaping him.
"You're one of the lot that has brought me down," he growled. "How much is it, and how long has it been due?"
"It has been due a long time past," I replied; "and the amount is two shillings, for two bottles of medicine and advice."
"Are you sure it isn't more?"
"Quite sure. I should have paid you before to-day, but when I went to your place-a long while ago, I must tell you-I found you had gone. You practiced in the north of London, you know."