"Pigins--dorgs! Not a bit of it. He warn't arter them," said Screwby. "Gents like him don't have no 'casion to come our way; 'cos why? Lots o' dealers comes arter them, and'll bring 'em any number o' rats, or dorgs either, for the matter o' that. You knows better nor that, Master Falkner. If I was to tell you as I come down here to make these here gents' minds easy, you wouldn't believe me, would you?" "Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Jack Screwby," said the sergeant, "no, I should not." "No," said the fellow, chuckling, "in coorse you wouldn't; and no more you don't believe as he went down our way arter rats or dorgs." "Well, suppose he did not: what then?" said the sergeant. "Don't you hurry no man's cattle; you may have a moke o' your own some day," said Screwby, with a grin. "I'm a coming to it fast, I am; so look out. Look ye here, governor," he said in his hoarse whisper, and he craned his neck towards the impassive officer, "lars Chewsday night was a week as I see him go in theer all alone." "Go in where, Jack--in where?" said the sergeant, quietly, but with his eyes a little closer, his ears twitching, and every nerve evidently on the strain. "Why, ain't I a tellin' on ye?--in theer!" "To be sure, yes, of course," said the sergeant, quietly, "in there--all right!" "Yes," continued Screwby, "in theer--in at D. Wragg's; and," continued the fellow, in deep tones, harsh, husky, and like a hoarse whisper sent through some large tube--"and he didn't come out no more." Volume 2, Chapter XXV. TAKING UP THE CLUE. As the rough, brutal fellow uttered those, words, accompanying them with a low cunning grin of satisfaction at his success, the walls of the room seemed to swim round before Harry Clayton's eyes; but recovering himself, he ran to the side of Sir Francis, just as he was staggering and would have fallen. "It's nothing, my dear boy--nothing at all," he gasped; "only a slight touch of faintness. Ring--a glass of wine--a little water--thanks! I am a little overdone with anxiety--a trifle unnerved. Sergeant, you will see to this directly, we will go with you." "Better not, sir--better not," said the officer, bluntly; "leave it in my hands." "Sergeant Falkner," said the old man, piteously, "you are not a father, or you would not speak like that." "Ain't I, by Jove, sir!" cried the sergeant, heartily; "I've got ten already, and goodness knows how many more to come. I've had butcher-and-baker on-the-brain any time this ten years, sir; let alone boots. But I beg your pardon, Sir Francis; I won't say another word. Here, you, Screwby, go and sit in that chair," and he pointed to the one farthest from the door. Then, walking across with the man, he to a certain extent seemed to seat him in the chair, the great hulking rascal being like so much plastic clay in his hands.