This is them two young sisters what tied themselves together with a handkecher. This the drunken old chap, in a pair of list slippers and a nightcap, wot had offered—it afterwards come out—to make a hole in the water for a quartern of rum stood aforehand, and kept to his word for the first and last time in his life. They pretty well papers the room, you see; but I know ′em all. I′m scholar enough!′
He waved the light over the whole, as if to typify the light of his scholarly intelligence, and then put it down on the table and stood behind it looking intently at his visitors. He had the special peculiarity of some birds of prey, that when he knitted his brow, his ruffled crest stood highest.
′You did not find all these yourself; did you?′ asked Eugene.
To which the bird of prey slowly rejoined, ′And what might YOUR name be, now?′
′This is my friend,′ Mortimer Lightwood interposed; ′Mr Eugene Wrayburn.′
′Mr Eugene Wrayburn, is it? And what might Mr Eugene Wrayburn have asked of me?′
′I asked you, simply, if you found all these yourself?′
′I answer you, simply, most on ′em.′
′Do you suppose there has been much violence and robbery, beforehand, among these cases?′
′I don′t suppose at all about it,′ returned Gaffer. ′I ain′t one of the supposing sort. If you′d got your living to haul out of the river every day of your life, you mightn′t be much given to supposing. Am I to show the way?′
As he opened the door, in pursuance of a nod from Lightwood, an extremely pale and disturbed face appeared in the doorway—the face of a man much agitated.
′A body missing?′ asked Gaffer Hexam, stopping short; ′or a body found? Which?′
′I am lost!′ replied the man, in a hurried and an eager manner.
′Lost?′
′I—I—am a stranger, and don′t know the way. I—I—want to find the place where I can see what is described here. It is possible I may know it.′ He was panting, and could hardly speak; but, he showed a copy of the newly-printed bill that was still wet upon the wall. Perhaps its newness, or perhaps the accuracy of his observation of its general look, guided Gaffer to a ready conclusion.
′This gentleman, Mr Lightwood, is on that business.′
′Mr Lightwood?′
During a pause, Mortimer and the stranger confronted each other. Neither knew the other.
′I think, sir,′ said Mortimer, breaking the awkward silence with his airy self-possession, ′that you did me the honour to mention my name?′
′I repeated it, after this man.′
′You said you were a stranger in London?′
′An utter stranger.′
′Are you seeking a Mr Harmon?′
′No.′
′Then I believe I can assure you that you are on a fruitless errand, and will not find what you fear to find. Will you come with us?′
A little winding through some muddy alleys that might have been deposited by the last ill-savoured tide, brought them to the wicket-gate and bright lamp of a Police Station; where they found the Night-Inspector, with a pen and ink, and ruler, posting up his books in a whitewashed office, as studiously as if he were in a monastery on top of a mountain, and no howling fury of a drunken woman were banging herself against a cell-door in the back-yard at his elbow.
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