“Good-day,” Hewitt said pleasantly to the young man. “I notice there’s some stabling to let here. Now, where should I inquire about it?”
“Jones, Whitfield Street,” the young man answered, giving the wheel a final spin. “But there’s only one little place to let now, I think, and it ain’t very grand.”
“Oh, which is that?”
“Next but one to the street there. A chap ‘ad it for wood-choppin’, but ‘e chucked it. There ain’t room for more’n a donkey an’ a barrow.”
“Ah, that’s a pity. We’re not particular, but want something big enough, and we don’t mind paying a fair price. Perhaps we might make an arrangement with somebody here who has a stable?”
The young man shook his head.
“I shouldn’t think so,” he said doubtfully; “they’re mostly shop-people as wants all the room theirselves. My guv’nor couldn’t do nothink, I know. These ’ere two stables ain’t scarcely enough for all ‘e wants as it is. Then there’s Barkett the greengrocer ’ere next door. That ain’t no good. Then, next to that, there’s the little place as is to let, and at the end there’s Griffith’s at the buttershop.”
“And those the other way?”
“Well, this ’ere first one’s Curtis’s, Euston Road — that’s a butter-shop, too, an’ ’e ’as the next after that. The last one, up at the end — I dunno quite whose that is. It ain’t been long took, but I b’lieve it’s some foreign baker’s. I ain’t ever see anythink come out of it, though; but there’s a ’orse there, I know — I seen the feed took in.”
Hewitt turned thoughtfully away.
“Thanks,” he said. “I suppose we can’t manage it, then. Good-day.”
We walked to the street as the butcher’s young man wheeled in his cart and flung away his pail of water.
“Will you just hang about here, Brett,” he asked, “while I hurry round to the nearest ironmonger’s? I shan’t be gone long. We’re going to work a little burglary. Take note if anybody comes to that stable at the farther end.”
He hurried away and I waited. In a few moments the butcher’s young man shut his doors and went whistling down the street, and in a few moments more Hewitt appeared.
“Come,” he said, “there’s nobody about now; we’ll lose no time. I’ve bought a pair of pliers and a few nails.”
We re-entered the yard at the door of the last stable. Hewitt stooped and examined the padlock. Taking a nail in his pliers he bent it carefully against the brick wall. Then using the nail as a key, still held by the pliers, and working the padlock gently in his left hand, in an astonishingly few seconds he had released the hasp and taken off the padlock. “I’m not altogether a bad burglar,” he remarked. “Not so bad, really.”
The padlock fastened a bar which, when removed, allowed the door to be opened. Opening it, Hewitt immediately seized a candle stuck in a bottle which stood on a shelf, pulled me in, and closed the door behind us.
“We’ll do this by candle-light,” he said, as he struck a match. “If the door were left open it would be seen from the street. Keep your ears open in case anybody comes down the yard.”
The part of the shed that we stood in was used as a coach-house, and was occupied by a rather shabby tradesman’s cart, the shafts of which rested on the ground. From the stall adjoining came the sound of the shuffling and trampling of an impatient horse.
We turned to the cart. On the name-board at the side were painted in worn letters the words, “Schuyler, Baker.” The address, which had been below, was painted out.
Hewitt took out the pins and let down the tailboard. Within the cart was a new bed-mattress which covered the whole surface at the bottom. I felt it, pressed it from the top, and saw that it was an ordinary spring mattress — perhaps rather unusually soft in the springs. It seemed a curious thing to keep in a baker’s cart.
Hewitt, who had set the candle on a convenient shelf, plunged his arm into the farthermost recesses of the cart and brought forth a very long French loaf, and then another. Diving again he produced certain loaves of the sort known as the “plain cottage “— two sets of four each, each set baked together in a row. “Feel this bread,” said Hewitt, and I felt it. It was stale — almost as hard as wood.
Hewitt produced a large pocket-knife, and with what seemed to me to be superfluous care and elaboration, cut into the top of one of the cottage loaves. Then he inserted his fingers in the gap he had made and firmly but slowly tore the hard bread into two pieces. He pulled away the crumb from within till there was nothing left but a rather thick outer shell.
“No,” he said, rather to himself than to me, “there’s nothing in that.” He lifted one of the very long French loaves and measured it against the interior of the cart. It had before been propped diagonally, and now it was noticeable that it was just a shade longer than the inside of the cart was wide. Jammed in, in fact, it held firmly. Hewitt produced his knife again, and divided this long loaf in the centre; there was nothing but bread in that. The horse in the stall fidgeted more than ever.
“That horse hasn’t been fed lately, I fancy,” Hewitt said. “We’ll give the poor chap a bit of this hay in the corner.”
“But,” I said, “what about this bread? What did you expect to find in it? I can’t see what you’re driving at.”
“I’ll tell you,” Hewitt replied, “I’m driving after something I expect to find; and close at hand here, too. How are your nerves to-day — pretty steady? The thing may try them.”
Before I could reply there was a sound of footsteps in the yard outside, approaching. Hewitt lifted his finger instantly for silence and whispered hurriedly, “There’s only one. If he comes here, we grab him.”
The steps came nearer and stopped outside the door. There was a pause, and then a slight drawing in of breath, as of a person suddenly surprised. At that moment the door was slightly shifted ajar and an eye peeped in.
“Catch him! “said Hewitt aloud, as we sprang to the door. “He mustn’t get away! ”
I had been nearer the doorway, and was first through it. The stranger ran down the yard at his best, but my legs were the longer, and half-way to the street I caught him by the shoulder and swung him round. Like lightning he whipped out a knife, and I flung in my left instantly on the chance of flooring him. It barely checked him, however, and the knife swung short of my chest by no more than two inches; but Hewitt had him by the wrist and tripped him forward on his face. He struggled like a wild beast, and Hewitt had to stand on his forearm and force up his wrist till the bones were near breaking before he dropped his knife. But throughout the struggle the man never shouted, called for help, nor, indeed, made the slightest sound, and we on our part were equally silent.
It was quickly over, of course, for he was on his face, and we were two. We dragged our prisoner into the stable and closed the door behind us. So far as we had seen, nobody had witnessed the capture from the street, though, of course, we had been too busy to be certain.
“There’s a set of harness hanging over at the back,” said Hewitt; “I think we’ll tie him up with the traces and reins — nothing like leather. We don’t need a gag; I know he won’t shout.”
While I got the straps Hewitt held the prisoner by a peculiar neck-and-wrist grip that forbade