Mr. Grimstone turned out of the by-street in which he had been walking, into a narrow alley leading to the broad open square upon which the marketplace stands.
The detective went his way in a leisurely manner, with his hands in his pockets and a cigar in his mouth. He had perfect confidence in Mr. Thomas Chivers, and the crowded state of the marketplace and its neighbourhood in no way weakened his sense of security.
“Chivers will stick to him through thick and thin,” he thought; “he’d keep an eye upon his man if he had to look after him between Charing Cross and Whitehall when the Queen was going to open Parliament. He’s not the man to be flummuxed by a crowd in a country marketplace.”
Serene in this sense of security, Mr. Grimstone amused himself by looking about him, with an expression of somewhat supercilious wonder, at the manners and customs of those indigenae who, upon market-day, make their inroad into the quiet town. He paused upon the edge of a little sunken flight of worn steps leading down to the stage-door of the theatre, and read the fragments of old bills mouldering upon the doorposts and lintel. There were glowing announcements of dramatic performances that had long ago taken place; and above the rain and mud stained relics of the past, in bold black lettering, appeared the record of a drama as terrible as any that had ever been enacted in that provincial theatre. The bill-sticker had posted the announcement of the reward offered by John Mellish for the discovery of the murderer in every available spot, and had not forgotten this position, which commanded one of the entrances to the marketplace.
“It’s a wonder to me,” muttered Mr. Grimstone, “that that blessed bill shouldn’t have opened the eyes of these Doncaster noodles. But I dare say they think it’s a blind, a planned thing to throw ’em off the scent their clever noses are sticking to so determined. If I can get my man before they open their eyes, I shall have such a haul as I haven’t met with lately.”
Musing thus pleasantly, Mr. Grimstone turned his back upon the theatre, and crossed over to the market. Within the building the clamour of buying and selling was at its height: noisy countrymen chaffering in their northern patois upon the value and merits of poultry, butter, and eggs; dealers in butchers’ meat bewildering themselves in the endeavour to simultaneously satisfy the demands of half a dozen sharp and bargain-loving housekeepers; while from without there came a confused clatter of other merchants and other customers, clamouring and hustling round the stalls of greengrocers and the slimy barrows of blue-jacketed fishmongers. In the midst of all this bustle and confusion, Mr. Grimstone came suddenly upon his trusted ally, pale, terror-stricken, and—alone!
The detective’s mind was not slow to grasp the full force of the situation.
“You’ve lost him!” he whispered fiercely, seizing the unfortunate Mr. Chivers by the collar, and pinning him as securely as if he had serious thoughts of making him a permanent fixture upon the stone-flags of the marketplace. “You’ve lost him, Tom Chivers!” he continued, hoarse with agitation. “You’ve lost the party that I told you was worth more to me than any other party I ever gave you the office for. You’ve lost me the best chance I’ve ever had since I’ve been in Scotland Yard, and yourself too; for I should have acted liberal by you,” added the detective, apparently oblivious of that morning’s reverie, in which he had predetermined offering his assistant ten pounds, in satisfaction of all his claims—“I should have acted very liberal by you, Tom. But what’s the use of standing jawing here? You come along with me; you can tell me how it happened as we go.”
With his powerful grasp still on the underling’s collar, Mr. Grimstone walked out of the marketplace, neither looking to the right nor the left, though many a pair of rustic eyes opened to their widest as he passed, attracted no doubt by the rapidity of his pace and the obvious determination of his manner. Perhaps those rustic bystanders thought that the stern-looking gentleman in the black frock-coat had arrested the shabby little man in the act of picking his pocket, and was bearing him off to deliver him straight into the hands of justice.
Mr. Grimstone released his grasp when he and his companion had got clear of the marketplace.
“Now,” he said, breathless, but not slackening his pace—“now I suppose you can tell me how you came to make such an”—inadmissable adjective—“fool of yourself? Never you mind where I’m goin’. I’m goin’ to the railway station. Never you mind why I’m goin’ there. You’d guess why, if you weren’t a fool. Now tell me all about it, can’t you?”
“It ain’t much to tell,” the humble follower gasped, his respiratory functions sadly tried by the pace at which his superior went over the ground. “It ain’t much. I followed your instructions faithful. I tried, artful and quiet-like, to make acquaintance with him; but that warn’t a bit o’ good. He was as surly as a bull-terrier, so I didn’t force him to it; but kept an eye upon him, and let out before him as it was racin’ business as had brought me to Doncaster, and as I was here to look after a horse, what was in trainin’ a few miles off, for a gent in London; and when he left the public, I went after him, but not conspicuous. But I think from that minute he was fly, for he didn’t go three steps without lookin’ back, and he led me such a chase as made my legs tremble under me, which they trembles at this moment; and then he gets me into the marketplace, and
