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Page 73
"A sad waste of time! You are an impudent fellow, whoever you are. I
refuse to have anything to do with you."
"I think you'll change your mind, sir. If you don't you'll be sorry till
your dying day."
"You scoundrel, do you dare to threaten me?" cried Nevill. "There is
only one remedy for ruffians of your kind--" He looked up and down the
street in search of a policeman.
"You can call an officer if you like," the man said, scornfully; "or, if
you choose to order me away, I'll go. But in that case," he bent nearer
and dropped his voice to a whisper, "I'll take my secret straight to Sir
Lucius Chesney. And I'll warrant _he_ won't refuse to hear it."
Nevill's countenance changed, and he seemed to wilt instantly.
"Your secret?" he muttered. "Are you telling the truth? What is it?"
"Do you suppose I'm going to give that away here in the street? It's a
private matter, and can only be told under shelter, where there ain't no
danger of eavesdroppers."
"I'll trust you," replied Nevill, after a brief hesitation. "Come, you
shall go to my rooms. But I warn you in advance that if you are playing
a game of blackmail I'll have no mercy on you."
"I won't ask none. Don't you fear."
Nevill opened the house door, and the two went softly up the dimly lit
staircase. The gas-lamps were turned on, revealing the luxuries of the
front apartment, and the visitor looked about him with bewildered
admiration; he seemed to feel his unfitness for the place, and
instinctively buttoned his coat over his shabby linen. But that was only
for a moment. With an insolent smile he took possession of a
basket-chair, helped himself to a cigar, and poured some brandy from a
_carafe_ into a glass. Meanwhile Nevill had drawn the window curtains,
and when he turned around he had hard work to restrain his anger.
"What the devil--," he began, and broke off. "You are the cheekiest
fellow I ever came across," he added.
"It ain't often," replied the man, puffing away contentedly, "that I get
a chance to try a swell's tobacco and liquor. That's prime stuff, sir. I
feel more like talking now."
"Then be quick about it. What is your business? And as you have the
advantage of me at present, it would be better if you began by stating
your name."
"My name," the man paused half a second, "is Timmins--Joe Timmins. It
ain't likely that you--"
"No; I never heard it," Nevill interrupted. He sat down at the other
side of the table, and endeavored to hide his anxiety and impatience.
"I can't spare you much time," he added.
"Sure there ain't nobody within earshot?"
"Quite sure. Make your mind easy."
Mr. Joe Timmins--_alias_ Noah Hawker--expressed his satisfaction by
a nod. He produced a paper from his pocket, and slowly unfolded it.
"If you will kindly read that," he said.
Nevill took the document curiously. It consisted of half a dozen pages
of writing, well-worded and grammatical, but done by a wretched,
scrawling hand, and embellished with numerous blots and smudges. From
the first he grasped its import, and as he read on to the end his face
grew pale and his hands shook. With a curse he started to his feet and
made a step toward the grate, where the embers of a coal fire lingered.
Then, dropping down again, he laughed bitterly.
"Of course this is only a copy?" he exclaimed.
"That's all, sir," replied Mr. Timmins, with a grim smile. "It ain't
likely I'd been fool enough to bring the original here. I did the copy
myself, an' though I ain't much of a scholar, I do say as it reads for
what it's meant to be, word for word."
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