"Close-fisted as they make 'em," replied the apprentice. "He doesn't exactly weigh out the butter nor count the potatoes, but he's next door to it."
"And what sort of man is he generally?" enquired Wedgwood. "Come!—you seem to be a smart chap yourself, and you've been with him at close quarters for five years, so you ought to know him. What sort of man is Thomas Wraypoole?"
Stainsby smiled, and there was an amount of cynicism in the smile that struck Wedgwood as strange in one so young.
"He's this sort of man, mister," he answered.
"If there's another man in London who could get round him, I should like to see that man—as a curiosity! But there isn't! He's as deep as—as the bottomless pit! That's what he is!—deep!"
"And clever?"
"Clever as the devil! I've known some of his tricks. Oh, he's clever!"
"Did you ever see John Wraypoole—the dead man?"
"Three or four times. It was very seldom he ever came to the shop. Usually, if he wanted to see Thomas he phoned him."
"The two brothers were very much alike in appearance, eh?"
