A WHITE HAND AND A BLACK THUMB.

IN THIRTEEN CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER XII.

AN hour later, Arthur Haggerdorn sat alone
in his little room, trying hard to restore some
order among his scattered thoughts, when he
was startled by a heavy step without, followed
by a tap at the door. It was a frank, hearty
knock, and worthy of the individual who had
delivered it, a jolly grazier-like personage, with
a broad hat, heavy riding-boots, and whip, who
entered, strode straight up to Arthur, and, taking
his hand, wrung it cordially.

"I've come to ask you to eat a beefsteak with
me, Master Haggerdorn," said the visitor, in a
provincial accent of considerable breadth.

Arthur replied that he was much obliged, the
more so as he was in total ignorance even of the
name of his proposed entertainer, and was not
in the least disposed for dinner.

"As for names, mine's Bill Brightsom," was
the rejoinder. "As for hunger, the very friz of
the steaks at Katy Dowe's coffee-house would
put an appetite into a milestone; so come
along. Your brother bade me ask you."

"My brother!"

"There's his token" (giving Arthur a long
twisted lock), "one of his kiss-curls, belle-
catchers, as we call 'em in—hem—in Lincolnshire.
He said he shouldn't want it no more.
Bless you, I know all about it! And as my
time's precious, and there's gentlemen a wanting
me in several directions, why, there's no time to
waste in getting peckish. Are you coming, or
an't you coming?" asked the visitor, his patience
on the wane.

He evidently listened eagerly to every sound,
and Arthur had noticed, more than once, that,
at any sudden movement in the house, the
country gentleman's hand made a curious quick
motion in the direction of his breast-pocket.
"I've only three quarters of an hour to spare.
You want a cull."

"Cull!" said Arthur. "Zis is my desire—
to find ze cruel, crafty murderer of Humpage
father."

"Would the crafty murdered do as well, now?"
asked Mr. Brightsom, with a curious flicker in
his eye.

"Ze murdered!"

"You come along, and eat a beefsteak," was
the oracular reply.

And Arthur, yielding to one of those sudden
convictions common to impressible minds, caught
up his hat, and followed the worthy grazier with
all the alacrity the latter could possibly desire.

Mr. Brightsom, whose rustic shyness perhaps
led him insensibly to prefer the less frequented
thoroughfares, conducted Arthur through a
somewhat intricate labyrinth of back slums, to
what seemed one of the very dirtiest little
taverns that ever welcomed the hungry City
wayfarer to steak and pot of ale. A low hiss,
closely followed and interpreted by a burst of
savoury steam, met the visitor on the threshold,
and though it might not absolutely inspire a
milestone, certainly suggested ideas not appeasable
by barren argument.

Mr. Brightsom pioneered his young companion
through the inner darkness, which was
so profound, that Arthur was fairly seated in a
box, opposite his guide, before his eye could
clearly distinguish surrounding objects.

There was but little talking; there was a low
continuous rattle of knives and forks, not to
mention the ceaseless friz, indicating that people
came thither exclusively to feed. It was too
dark to read or write, and a man might easily
have helped himself from the same saltcellar with
his own brother without recognising him. The
attendance was performed by two gnomes, or
other sable beings, who flitted gloomily about
the room, and being invoked as "Al'ce," and
"Rokey," had probably been ascertained by some
visitor whose sight was stronger than common,
to be male and female of the species.

Mr. Brightsom apologised for not offering
his guest a choice of viands, such being the
celebrity of this house—the "Artichoke"—in
the matter of rumpsteaks, that to have ordered
anything else might have endangered the instant
expulsion of the audacious visitor, as having
offered a wanton and unmanly insult to the
feelings of the gnome-queen at work below.
Rumpsteaks and ale appeared (or elsewise
indicated their presence) on the table, as suddenly
as if they had only awaited the arrival of Mr.
Brightsom and friend. There followed, of
necessity, a minute's silence, after which the
grazier wiped his mouth on his ample sleeve, and
spake: