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Page 64
He pressed half a sovereign into the man's hand--so cleverly that none
observed the action--and then slipped back and joined Nevill and Mostyn,
who had a slight acquaintance with each other. The three had left the
room, and were going downstairs, before Mr. Noah Hawker recovered from
his surprise on learning that his gift was gold instead of a silver
sixpence. It chanced that he was reduced to his last coppers, and so the
half sovereign was a boon indeed. He nudged the elbow of a supercilious
looking young gentleman in evening dress who was passing.
"That swell cove who fixed me up--he's just gone," he said. "He's a real
gent, he is! Could you tell me his name, sir?"
"Aw, yes, I think I can," was the drawling reply. "He's an artist chap,
don't you know! Name of Vernon."
"Might it be John Vernon?"
"That's it, my man."
The name rang in Noah Hawker's ears, and he repeated it to himself as he
stumbled downstairs. He was in such a brown study that he forgot to tip
the door-keeper who let him into the street. He pulled his cap lower to
hide his bandaged head, and struck off in the direction of Tottenham
Court road.
"Funny how I run across that chap!" he reflected. "Vernon--John
Vernon--yes, it's the same, no doubt about it. But he's only an artist,
and I know what artists are. There's many on 'em, with claw-hammer coats
and diamonds in their shirt-fronts, as hasn't got two quid to knock
together. You won't suit my book, Mr. Vernon--you're not in the running
against the others. It's a pity, though, for he was a real swell, what I
_call_ a gent. But I'll keep him in mind, and it sort of strikes me I'll
be able to do him a good turn some day."
Meanwhile, as Noah Hawker walked northward in the direction of Kentish
Town, Jack and his companions had reached Piccadilly Circus. Here Mostyn
left them, while Jack and Nevill went down Regent street.
"A bit of a rounder, that chap," said Nevill. "He's not your sort. What
have you been doing with yourself for the last two weeks? I've not seen
you since you sailed for India, early in the summer."
"How did you find me to-night?" asked Jack, in a tone which suggested
that he did not want to be found.
"I met a Johnny who told me where you were. I vowed he was mistaken at
first, but he stuck to it so positively--"
"You said you wanted to talk to me," Jack interrupted. "I suppose it is
about--"
"No; you're wrong. _She_ is in Paris, and she won't trouble you again.
The fact is, I have a message for you from Lamb and Drummond. They've
been trying to find you for a fortnight."
"Lamb and Drummond looking for me? Ah, yes, I think I know what they
want."
"It's a queer business, isn't it? My uncle is mixed up in it--Sir Lucius
Chesney, you know."
"Then he has told you--"
"Only a little. It's not my affair, and I would rather not speak about
it. Can I tell Mr. Lamb that you will call upon him at five o'clock
to-morrow afternoon--or this afternoon, to be correct? They will want
to get my uncle from the country."
"I will be there at that hour," Jack assented, and with a hasty
"Good-night" he was gone, striding rapidly away. Nevill looked after
him for a moment, and then sauntered home. The street lights showed
a sneering smile of satisfaction on his face.
Jack could easily have picked up a cab, but he preferred to walk. He
went along the Strand, now waking up to the life and traffic of early
morning. Turning into Wellington street, he crossed Waterloo Bridge, and
the gray dawn was breaking when he let himself into a big, dingy house
not far from the river. Here, remote from his friends, he had chosen to
live, in two rooms which he had fitted up more than comfortably with
recent purchases. Even Jimmie did not know where he was--never dreamed
of looking for him on the Surrey side. His brain was too active for
sleep, and he sat up smoking another hour.
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