"Of course," said Dicky. "Why shouldn't I? They're all right if you
don't rub the fur the wrong way. But I haven't got state secrets in my
pockets, so they know it's no use to pick 'em."
I was not at all sure of Dicky's fidelity, in spite of his seeming
earnestness, but I forbore to mention my doubts, and left the garrulous
young man to go his way while I turned to the office that had been
furnished by Doddridge Knapp. I hardly expected to meet the King of the
Street. He had, I supposed, returned to the city, but he had set
Wednesday as the day for resuming operations in the market, and I did
not think that he would be found here on Monday.
The room was cold and cheerless, and the dingy books in law-calf
appeared to gaze at me in mute protest as I looked about me.
The doors that separated me from Doddridge Knapp's room were shut and
locked. What was behind them? I wondered. Was there anything in
Doddridge Knapp's room that bore on the mystery of the hidden boy, or
would give the clue to the murder of Henry Wilton? As I gazed on the
panels the questions became more and more insistent. Was it not my duty
to find the answer? The task brought my mind to revolt. Yet the thought
grew on me that it was necessary to my task. If vengeance was to be
mine; if Doddridge Knapp was to pay the penalty of the gallows for the
death of Henry Wilton, it must be by the evidence that I should wrest
from him and his tools. I must not stop at rummaging papers, nor at
listening at keyholes.
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