Mr. Grimstone stopped short before the moneylender’s portal.
“I won’t be beaten,” he muttered between his teeth. “If this man has got any weskits, I’ll have a look at ’em.”
He lounged into the shop in a leisurely manner, and asked the proprietor of the establishment if he had anything cheap in the way of fancy waistcoats.
Of course the proprietor had everything desirable in that way, and from a kind of grove or arbour of all manner of dry goods at the back of the shop, he brought out half a dozen brown-paper parcels, the contents of which he exhibited to Mr. Joseph Grimstone.
The detective looked at a great many waistcoats, but with no satisfactory result.
“You haven’t got anything with brass buttons, I suppose?” he inquired at last.
The proprietor shook his head reflectively.
“Brass buttons ain’t much worn nowadays,” he said; “but I’ll lay I’ve got the very thing you want, now I come to think of it. I got ’em an uncommon bargain from a traveller for a Birmingham house, who was here at the September meeting three years ago, and lost a hatful of money upon Underhand, and left a lot of things with me, in order to make up what he wanted.”
Mr. Grimstone pricked up his ears at the sound of “Birmingham.” The pawnbroker retired once more to the mysterious caverns at the back of his shop, and after a considerable search succeeded in finding what he wanted. He brought another brown-paper parcel to the counter, turned the flaming gas a little higher, and exhibited a heap of very gaudy and vulgar-looking waistcoats, evidently of that species of manufacture which is generally called slop-work.
“These are the goods,” he said; “and very tasty and lively things they are, too. I had a dozen of ’em; and I’ve only got these five left.”
Mr. Grimstone had taken up a waistcoat of a flaming check pattern, and was examining it by the light of the gas.
Yes; the purpose of his day’s work was accomplished at last. The back of the brass buttons bore the name of Crosby, Birmingham.
“You’ve only got five left out of the dozen,” said the detective; “then you’ve sold seven?”
“I have.”
“Can you remember who you sold ’em to?”
The pawnbroker scratched his head thoughtfully.
“I think I must have sold ’em all to the men at the works,” he said. “They take their wages once a fortnight; and there’s some of ’em drop in here every other Saturday night to buy something or other, or to take something out of pledge. I know I sold four or five that way.”
“But can you remember selling one of them to anybody else?” asked the detective. “I’m not asking out of curiosity; and I don’t mind standing something handsome by-and-by, if you can give me the information I want. Think it over, now, and take your time. You couldn’t have sold ’em all seven to the men from the works.”
“No; I didn’t,” answered the pawnbroker after a pause. “I remember now, I sold one of them—a fancy sprig on a purple ground—to Josephs the baker, in the next street; and I sold another—a yellow stripe on a brown ground—to the head-gardener at Mellish Park.”
Mr. Joseph Grimstone’s face flushed hot and red. His day’s work had not been wasted. He was bringing the buttons by Crosby of Birmingham very near to where he wanted to bring them.
“You can tell me the gardener’s name, I suppose?” he said to the pawnbroker.
“Yes; his name’s Dawson. He belongs to Doncaster, and he and I were boys together. I should not have remembered selling him the waistcoat, perhaps, for it’s nigh upon a year and a half ago; only he stopped and had a chat with me and my missis the night he bought it.”
Mr. Grimstone did not linger much longer in the shop. His interest in the waistcoats was evidently departed. He bought a couple of secondhand silk handkerchiefs, out of civility, no doubt, and then bade the pawnbroker good night.
It was nearly nine o’clock; but the detective only stopped at his inn long enough to eat about a pound and a quarter of beefsteak, and drink a pint of ale, after which brief refreshment he started for Mellish Park on foot. It was the principle of his life to avoid observation, and he preferred the fatigue of a long and lonely walk to the risks contingent upon hiring a vehicle to convey him to his destination.
Talbot and John had been waiting hopefully all the day for the detective’s coming, and welcomed him very heartily when he appeared, between ten and eleven. He was shown into John’s own room this evening; for the two gentlemen were sitting there smoking and talking after Aurora and Lucy had gone to bed. Mrs. Mellish had good need of rest, and could sleep peacefully now; for the dark shadow between her and her husband had gone forever, and she could not fear any peril, any sorrow, now that she knew herself to be secure of his love. John looked up eagerly as Mr. Grimstone followed the servant into the room; but a warning look from Talbot Bulstrode checked his impetuosity, and he waited till the door was shut before he spoke.
“Now, then, Grimstone,” he said; “what news?”
“Well, sir, I’ve had a hard day’s work,” the detective answered gravely, “and perhaps neither of you gentlemen—not being professional—would think much of what I’ve done; but for all that, I believe I’m bringin’ it home, sir; I believe I’m bringin’ it home.”
“Thank God for that!” murmured Talbot Bulstrode, reverently.
He had thrown away his cigar, and was standing by the fireplace, with his arm resting upon the angle of the mantelpiece.
“You’ve got a gardener by the name of Dawson in your service, Mr. Mellish?” said the detective.
“I have,” answered John: “but, Lord have mercy upon us! you
