Back Aa

Dark House ,The

Close

<h3>Chapter Nineteen.</h3> <h4>Birds of Prey.</h4> Travellers in Mayfair will have noticed that every here and there old-fashioned, snug looking hostelries exist in out-of-the-way places—at the corner of a mews, in a private street, where they do not seem to belong; and they are generally kept by ex-butlers, who have taken wives, joined their savings, and gone into business with the brewers’ help. In the parlour of the “Four-in-Hand,” Lower Maybush street, a party of gentlemen’s servants were playing bagatelle upon a bad board in a very smoky atmosphere, while a knot of three men sat at one of the old, narrow, battered mahogany tables in a corner, drinking cold gin and water, and smoking bad cigars. One was a little sharp-eyed, round-headed man, smartly dressed, and evidently rather proud of a large gilt pin in his figured silk tie. Another was tall and not ill-looking; he might have been a valet, for there was a certain imitation gentility about his cut—a valet whose master had been rather addicted to the turf, and this had been reflected on his man to the extent of trousers rather too tight, short hair, and a horseshoe pin with pearl nails. The third was rather a shabby-looking man of forty, undoubtedly a gentleman’s servant out of place, carrying the sign in the front of the reason why, in the shape of a nose unduly ripened by being bathed in glasses of alcoholic drink. “Knew him how long, did you say?” said the tall man, tapping his chin with an ivory-handled rattan-cane. “Ten years, poor chap,” said the ex-servant. “It was very horrid.” “Here, never mind that,” said the brisk little man. “We don’t want horrors. Touch the bell, Dick. Come, old fellow, sip up your lotion, and we’ll have them filled again. That cigar don’t draw. Try one of these. Here! three fours of gin cold,” he cried to the landlord, and as soon as the glasses were refilled, and cigars lighted, the conversation went on, to the accompaniment of rattling balls and laughter from the bagatelle players. “Well,” said the tall man, in a low voice, “you can do as you like, my lad, but I should have thought that, hard up as you are, and I should say without much chance of getting another crib—say at present—you’d have been glad to earn a honest quid or two.” The shabby-looking man shook his head. “Here, you’re always putting on the pace too much, Dick,” said the little man. “A fellow wants a little time. He’s on, you see if he isn’t. My respects to you, Mr Barnes. Hah! nice flavoured drop of gin that.” “You see, you know the house well,” continued the tall man. “Often been, of course?” “Oh, yes; had many a glass of wine there, when poor Charles was alive.” “Rather a bit of mystery, that,” said the little man. “I put that and that together, and I set it down that he was trying the job on his own account, and muffed it.” The shabby man shuddered, and took a hearty draught of his gin and water. “There would be only us three in the game,” said the tall man softly, “and it would be share and share alike. Why, if we worked it right, it would set you up. Might take a pub on it.” “Eh?” said the shabby man. “I say you might take a pub—and drink yourself to death,” was added aside. The little man winked at his tall companion, unobserved by the other, who looked dreamy. “Bars at all the lower windows, eh?” “Yes, yes. You couldn’t get in there,” was the quick reply. “More ways of killing a cat than by hanging it. Look here, my lads, there’s a stable to let in the mews at the back.” The shabby man looked up quickly. “I had a look at it to-day. Any one could easily get to that window looking on the leads.” “But that’s the window where—” “Well, dead men tell no tales, and they don’t get in the way. That’s the place.” “Oh, no,” said the shabby man. “Bah! you’re not afraid. I tell you it would be as easy as easy. You can give me a plan of the place, and all about it, and—why, it’s child’s play, my lad, and won’t hurt anybody. Take everything out of that stable, and have a cart in the coach-house. I say—touch that bell again, old man—you are not going to let a fortune slip through your fingers, I know.” The three occupants of the corner soon after rose to go, halting half-way down the street, where the tall man said:— “There’s half a sovereign to keep the cold out till then. Twelve o’clock, mind, punctual.” The shabby man slouched away, while the little fellow rubbed his hands. “There’s half a ton of it there,” he whispered. “Think he’ll stand to it?” “No fear, now we’ve got him over his fright. By jingo, I’m only afraid of one thing.” “What’s that?” “That some one else will be on the job.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2