"But--what about Number Three?" inquired Barnabas.
Mr. Shrig paused, glanced at Barnabas, and scratched his ear,
thoughtfully.
"V'y sir," said he at last, "Number Three vill be a corp."
"A what?" said Barnabas.
"A corp, sir--a stiff--"
"Do you mean--dead?"
"Ah,--I mean werry much so!" nodded Mr. Shrig.
"Number Three vill be stone cold,--somev'eres in the country it'll
'appen, I fancy,--say in a vood! And the leaves'll keep a-fluttering
over 'im, and the birds'll keep a-singing to 'im,--oh, Number
Three'll be comfortable enough,--'e von't 'ave to vorry about
nothink no more, it'll be Number Vun and Number Two as'll do the
vorrying, and me--till I gets my 'ooks on 'em, and then--"
"But," said Barnabas earnestly, "why not try to prevent it?"
"Prewent it, sir?" said Mr. Shrig, in a tone of pained surprise.
"Prewent it? Lord, Mr. Barty, sir--then vere vould my murder case be?
Besides, I ain't so onprofessional as to step in afore my time.
Prewent it? No, sir. My dooty is to apprehend a man arter the crime,
not afore it."
"But surely you don't mean to allow this unfortunate person to be
done to death?"
"Sir," said Mr. Shrig, beginning to finger his ear again, "unfort'nate
wictims is born to be--vell, let's say--unfort'nate. You can't 'elp
'em being born wictims. I can't 'elp it,--nobody can't, for natur'
vill 'ave 'er own vay, sir, and I ain't vun to go agin natur' nor
yet to spile a good case,--good cases is few enough. Oh, life ain't
all lavender, as I said afore,--burn my neck if it is!" And here
Mr. Shrig shook his head again, sighed again, and walked on in a
somewhat gloomy silence.
Now, all at once, as they turned into the rush and roar of Holborn,
Barnabas espied a face amid the hurrying throng; a face whose proud,
dark beauty there was no mistaking despite its added look of sorrow;
and a figure whose ripe loveliness the threadbare cloak could not
disguise. For a moment her eyes looked up into his, dark and
suddenly wide,--then, quick and light of foot, she was gone, lost in
the bustling crowd.
But, even so, Barnabas turned and followed, striding on and on until
at length he saw again the flutter of the threadbare cloak. And,
because of its shabbiness, he frowned and hastened his steps, and
because of the look he had read in her eyes, he paused again, yet
followed doggedly nevertheless. She led him down Holborn Hill past
the Fleet Market, over Blackfriars Bridge, and so, turning sharp to
the right, along a somewhat narrow and very grimy street between
rows of dirty, tumble-down houses, with, upon the right hand,
numerous narrow courts and alley-ways that gave upon the turgid river.
Down one of these alleys the fluttering cloak turned suddenly, yet
when Barnabas reached the corner, behold the alley was quite deserted,
save for a small and pallid urchin who sat upon a rotting stump,
staring at the river, with a pallid infant in his arms.