“What I like about you, Mr. Bellairs, is that you waste no time,” said Jim. “Now then, your client's name and address.”
“On consideration,” replied the lawyer, with indescribable furtivity, “I cannot see that I am entitled to communicate my client's name. I will sound him for you with pleasure, if you care to instruct me; but I cannot see that I can give you his address.”
“Very well,” said Jim, and put his hat on. “Rather a strong step, isn't it?” (Between every sentence was a clear pause.) “Not think better of it? Well, come, call it a dollar?”
“Mr. Pinkerton, sir!” exclaimed the offended attorney; and, indeed, I myself was almost afraid that Jim had mistaken his man and gone too far.
“No present use for a dollar?” says Jim. “Well, look here, Mr. Bellairs—we're both busy men—and I'll go to my outside figure with you right away——”
“Stop this, Pinkerton,” I broke in. “I know the address: 924 Mission Street.”
I do not know whether Pinkerton or Bellairs was the more taken aback.
“Why in snakes didn't you say so, Loudon?” cried my friend.
“You didn't ask for it before,” said I, colouring to my temples under his troubled eyes.
It was Bellairs who broke silence, kindly supplying me with all that I had yet to learn. “Since you know Mr. Dickson's address,” said he, plainly burning to be rid of us, “I suppose I need detain you no longer.”
I do not know how Pinkerton felt, but I had death in my soul as we came down the outside stair, from the den of this blotched spider. My whole being was strung, waiting for Jim's first question, and prepared to blurt out—I believe, almost with tears—a full avowal. But my friend asked nothing.
“We must hack it,” said he, tearing off in the
