Harry Clayton was fortunate, for he was shown into the great Mr Whittrick’s presence directly; and, as soon as seated, he had the pleasure of feeling that the private inquirer was mentally photographing him, though, all the same, his words were quiet and urbane.  But it seemed as if Mr Whittrick made use of all his faculties at once; he talked to his visitor; he listened to him; he gazed at him tremendously at times; he seemed to be smelling him; and, from the motion of his fingers, he evidently had a strong inclination to feel his visitor, for purposes of future recognition.

“No, sir ­at present, none; but we are doing all that is possible.”

“But have you nothing definite to communicate?” said Harry, despondently.

“No, sir ­at present, nothing,” said Mr Whittrick.  “But ­if I might be so bold ­there was an advertisement in the Times this morning, placed there of course by Sir Francis Redgrave.  I was not consulted over the matter.  I think, you know, sir, that Sir Francis is wrong.  I see that he has the Scotland Yard people at work.  Not a good plan, I think, sir.  They are very able men there ­Falkner’s good; but too many cooks, you know, spoil the broth.  Humble aphorism, but true, sir.  However, Sir Francis may depend upon my doing my best.”

Harry Clayton rose with a sigh and left the office, feeling very little hope of success in this direction.  Jealousy was evidently at work, and he could not but own to himself that Sir Francis had taken a wrong step.

What should he do next? he asked himself.  He had not been to Brownjohn Street the last day or two; why should he not go there again?  He might obtain some news.

It was hardly worth while going, he thought, only it was possible he might see the bird-dealer himself, and perhaps obtain some little information likely to prove of use.

But D. Wragg was not in, when he reached Brownjohn Street; and in place of seeing either him or poor Janet, Clayton encountered the round pleasant playbill-rayed face of Mrs Winks, rising like a fleshy sun from behind the paint-cloudy counter, to the loud song of the larks; for Mrs Winks had just been stooping to hide the weakness which she kept for her own private use in a ginger-beer bottle.  Mrs Winks’ head was only to be seen without curl-papers when she attended the theatres by night, in the full-dress of curls and blue merino, ready to supply the mental and bodily wants of the frequenters of Drury Lane Theatre gallery.  Upon this occasion, the playbill used had been one of the newest, the result being, that a good deal of ink had been transferred from the larger letters to Mrs Winks’ forehead, giving it a somewhat smudgy look.

The good lady, though, was quite in ignorance of her personal aspect, and after laying aside her weakness, carefully corked, she was bringing out of a capacious pocket a saveloy, wrapped in another of the never-failing play-bills ­the delicacy being intended for her lunch ­ when the appearance of Harry Clayton arrested her, and, escaping from the paper, the saveloy slipped back to the depths of her pocket, to be kept warm till required.

Mrs Winks rose to meet the visitor with a smile, which gave place to a puzzled look upon his inquiring for D. Wragg, and then for Janet.

“I’ll go and tell her, sir,” said the old lady, and she puffed up-stairs to Janet’s room, whence she returned in a few minutes, saying ­

“She’ve got a bad ’eadache, sir, and ain’t well; but if you’d leave any message?”

“No!” said Clayton, thoughtfully.  “You might, though, tell the French gentleman that I called.”

“Which he really is a thorough gentleman,” said.  Mrs Winks, enthusiastically; “as you’d say if you knowed more of him, and heard him paint and play on the fiddle.  I mean ­I beg your pardon, sir ­seen him play on the fiddle and paint.  He’s a gentleman, every inch of him, if he do lodge in Decadia, which ain’t nothing after all, is it, sir?  But I’ll tell him when he comes back; and your name too?”

Clayton gave her a card, and then walked thoughtfully back, but not without stopping in front of a blank wall, where a knot of rough-looking fellows were reading a placard, commencing ­“Two hundred pounds reward!” and then he shuddered, as one of the party said ­“I ’spose they’d hand over all the same, if he happened to be a dead ’un?”

There was no news when he reached Regent Street, and though Sir Francis had but just concluded an interview with a police sergeant, the mystery seemed as far as ever from solution.

“I think I will go out now, Clayton,” said the baronet, in an excited and feverish manner.  “It is so hard to stay in, walking up and down, as if caged, and waiting eagerly for every knock and ring.  You’ll take my place ­you won’t leave ­you won’t leave, in case of a call while you are away.”

“You may trust me, Sir Francis.”

“Yes, yes, I know ­I know,” said the old gentleman, wringing his hands, “I feel it!  But, Clayton,” he said, anxiously, “if any people should come with information in answer to the advertisements, keep them till I come back.”

“I will, decidedly!” said Clayton; “but may I ask where you are going now?”

“Only to see if the bills are well posted; and, you know, I might see some one who had news, ­it is possible.”

“I did see one bill posted up,” said Harry, but he did not mention the remark he had heard made.

“That’s well, Clayton ­that’s well! and I hope and trust that this state of anxiety may soon be at an end.”

The young man walked with Sir Francis to the door, and felt shocked to see the way in which he had altered during the past few days; then, returning to his seat, he began to think over the strange disappearance, recalling, too, that evening when he had determined to part from Lionel ­their visit to the dog-fancier’s, and the strange feelings that had been aroused; and now, troubled at heart and reluctant, he was pondering upon whether it was not his duty to place in the hands of the police the knowledge he possessed of Lionel’s many visits to Decadia.  He could not quite reconcile himself to the task, for he knew that it must result in much unpleasantness to Janet; but it struck him suddenly that the behaviour of the deformed girl was strange, though it had not appeared so at the time.  Could she know anything?  Had the foolish young man been inveigled to some den, robbed, and murdered? and did the horrified aspect Janet had worn mean that she was in possession of the secret?  He shuddered as such thoughts arose, and again and again asked himself what he should do, ending by coming to the determination that he would wait, at least until the following day, and then go to the house and warn them of what was about to be done.  And yet, if anything were wrong, it would be putting them upon their guard.  But their treatment of him seemed to demand that courtesy, and whatever was wrong, he felt that it would be hard for the innocent to be amongst the sufferers.  He could not put them to unnecessary pain.

Then came again a cloud of doubt and suspicion, which hung over him till a couple of hours later, when Sir Francis Redgrave returned ­pale, anxious, and tired ­to look inquiringly at Harry, and receive for answer a shake of the head, the young man feeling the while that he was not acting openly with his elder, in keeping from him all he knew ­ information which he was unable to decide whether or not he should impart.

In the evening, as they were seated together ­Harry thoughtful and silent, and Sir Francis with his face turned from the light ­the baronet spoke ­

“I cannot suffer this inaction much longer,” he said.  “It is always the same answer from the police ­`Leave it in our hands, sir; we are hard at work; though, so far, we have nothing to show.’  They say that every ­ every deadhouse has been searched; the men at the water-side have been told to be on the look-out; hospitals have been visited; everything possible done; but who can be satisfied?  We must begin on fresh ground to-morrow, Clayton.  What’s that?  Did some one knock?”

Mr Stiff entered to announce that there was a man below waiting to see some one respecting the reward.

Sir Francis started instantly to his feet.

“Show him up at once, Stiff!” he exclaimed; and then, not content to wait, in his anxiety he followed the landlord to the stairs, re-entering the room in a few minutes with the heavy-faced young fellow before introduced as Mr John Screwby.

“Now, my man, sit down; don’t stand there!” exclaimed Sir Francis, thrusting a chair forward; “now, tell us quickly.”

“Don’t keer to sit down, thanky,” said the fellow, surlily, taking a sidelong glance round the room, ending by fixing his eyes for a moment on the door, as if to make sure that there was a retreat open in case of need.

“Well, well!” exclaimed Sir Francis; “now tell us what you know, and why you have come.  Did you see the advertisement, or one of those placards?”

“Bla’guards?” said the fellow, inquiringly.

“Yes, yes! the bills.”

“Yes; I saw a bill ­two ’underd pound reward ­and I’ve come for that there two ’underd pound reward.”

“But your information ­what do you know?” broke in Harry.

The man turned and stared at him heavily.

“Ah!  I didn’t know you at first, without no hat on; but I knows you now.  You was with him once when he came down our way.  I seed you then, and I ain’t forgot you.  But, first of all, who’s going to pay this here money?  Is it you, or is it him?”

“I’ll pay you ­I’ll pay you, my man!” exclaimed Sir Francis; “and what is your information? ­what do you know?”

“What I know’s worth two ’underd pound now,” said the fellow, winking at Harry; “but if I tells it, then, praps, it won’t be worth nothin’ to me.”

“You are dealing with a gentleman, my good fellow,” said Harry, “and you need be under no apprehension.”

“But how do I know as I shan’t be done?” was the offensive reply.  “Nobody don’t trust me nothin’; and I don’t see why I should trust nobody.  I’m a plain-spoke sort of a chap, I am; and I allers says what’s in my mind.  So now, lookye here ­you says as you’ll give two ’underd pound to them as’ll tell you where a tall young man’s gone ­ that’s it, ain’t it?”

Harry nodded.

“Werry good, then.  I comes here, and I says, `’And over the stiff!’ `What for?’ says you. `’Cos I knows wheer he is,’ says I. `So, now then,’ I says, `hand over the tin.’”

Without another word, Sir Francis went to a small writing-case, opened it, and took from a book a ready-signed cheque for the amount.

“Stop!” exclaimed Harry.  “Excuse me, Sir Francis; but your anxiety overleaps your caution.  How do we know that this man’s information is worth having?”

“He says he knows where ­where ­you know what he says,” said Sir Francis, piteously.

“Yes,” said Harry; “but let him prove his words.”

“What! are yer agoin’ to run back from it, or are yer agoin’ to hand over the stiff?” said the man, uneasily.

“When you have earned it,” said Harry, almost fiercely.  “Now, look here, my man, show us the value of your information, and restore this gentleman to his friends; and without any reference to such complicity as you may have had in the transaction, the two hundred pounds are yours.”

“But lookye here,” said the man, leaning towards him; “suppose as he’s ­ you know what?” and he whispered the last words.

“The money is yours all the same,” said Harry, in the same tone.

But the man was apparently still far from satisfied, muttering, biting pieces out of his cap-lining, and spitting them upon the carpet, till a bright thought seemed to strike him, to which he gave birth.

“Lookye here, gents.  Let’s have the money posted fair for both sides.  I knows a genleman down our way as keeps a beer-shop as’d see fair, and make all square.  Now, what do you say?”

What would have been said was arrested by a sudden start, or rather jump, on the part of Mr John Screwby, who, following the direction of Sir Francis’ eyes, found that another person had entered the room, and taken a place at his elbow, where he had stood for some few moments listening to the conversation.