Tracking the Bird of Prey
The two lime merchants, with their escort, entered the dominions of Miss Abbey Potterson, to whom their escort (presenting them and their pretended business over the half-door of the bar, in a confidential way) preferred his figurative request that “a mouthful of fire” might be lighted in Cosy. Always well disposed to assist the constituted authorities, Miss Abbey bade Bob Gliddery attend the gentlemen to that retreat, and promptly enliven it with fire and gaslight. Of this commission the bare-armed Bob, leading the way with a flaming wisp of paper, so speedily acquitted himself, that Cosy seemed to leap out of a dark sleep and embrace them warmly, the moment they passed the lintels of its hospitable door.
“They burn sherry very well here,” said Mr. Inspector, as a piece of local intelligence. “Perhaps you gentlemen might like a bottle?”
The answer being by all means, Bob Gliddery received his instructions from Mr. Inspector, and departed in a becoming state of alacrity engendered by reverence for the majesty of the law.
“It’s a certain fact,” said Mr. Inspector, “that this man we have received our information from,” indicating Riderhood with his thumb over his shoulder, “has for some time past given the other man a bad name arising out of your lime barges, and that the other man has been avoided in consequence. I don’t say what it means or proves, but it’s a certain fact. I had it first from one of the opposite sex of my acquaintance,” vaguely indicating Miss Abbey with his thumb over his shoulder, “down away at a distance, over yonder.”