From King's Cross, northwards; out to
Holloway, to Hornsey. A light rain was ceaselessly falling; at one
time he took off his hat and walked some distance bareheaded,
because it was a pleasure to feel the rain trickle over him. From
Hornsey by a great circuit he made back for Islington. Here he went
into a public-house, to quench the thirst that had grown unbearable.
He had but a shilling in his pocket, and in bringing it out he was
reminded of the necessity of getting more money. He was to have met
Jack Bartley to-night, long before this hour.
He took the direction for Smithfield, and soon reached the alley
near Bartholomew's Hospital where Bartley dwelt. As he entered the
street he saw a small crowd gathered about a public-house door; he
hurried nearer, and found that the object of interest was a man in
the clutch of two others. The latter, he perceived at a glance, were
police-officers in plain clothes; the man arrested was--Jack
Bartley himself.
Jack was beside himself with terror; he had only that moment been
brought out of the bar, and was pleading shrilly in an agony of
cowardice.
'It ain't me as made 'em! I never made one in my life! I'll tell you
who it is--I'll tell you where to find him--it's Bob Hewett as
lives in Merlin Place! You've took the wrong man.
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