"What crime, pray? I hope he particularized it."
"What he seemed to hint at was some unfair play in connection with his
brother's death," said the old clerk, lowering his voice. "'A man at his
wits' end for money would do many queer things,' he remarked."
Mr. Carr's eyes flashed. "What a dangerous fool he must be! You surely
did not listen to him!"
"I, sir! I stopped him pretty quickly, and bade him sew up his mouth
until he came to his sober senses again. Oh, they make great simpletons
of themselves, some of these young fellows, when they get a little drink
into them."
"They do," said the barrister. "Did he ever allude to the matter again?"
"Never; and when I saw him the next day, he seemed ashamed of himself,
and asked if he had not been talking a lot of nonsense. About a fortnight
after that we parted, and I have never seen him since."
"And you really do not know what has become of him?"
"Not at all. I should think he has left London."
"Why?"
"Because had he remained in it he'd be sure to have come bothering me to
employ him again; unless, indeed, he has found some one else to do it."
"Well," said Mr. Carr, rising, "will you do me this favour? If you come
across the man again, or learn tidings of him in any way, let me know it
at once. I do not want him to hear of me, or that I have made inquiries
about him. I only wish to ascertain _where_ he is, if that be possible.
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