“A body missing?” asked Gaffer Hexam, stopping short; “or a body found? Which?”
“I am lost!” replied the man, in a hurried and an eager manner.
“Lost?”
“I—I—am a stranger, and don’t know the way. I—I—want to find the place where I can see what is described here. It is possible I may know it.” He was panting, and could hardly speak; but, he showed a copy of the newly-printed bill that was still wet upon the wall. Perhaps its newness, or perhaps the accuracy of his observation of its general look, guided Gaffer to a ready conclusion.
“This gentleman, Mr. Lightwood, is on that business.”
“ Mr. Lightwood?”
During a pause, Mortimer and the stranger confronted each other. Neither knew the other.
“I think, sir,” said Mortimer, breaking the awkward silence with his airy self-possession, “that you did me the honour to mention my name?”
“I repeated it, after this man.”
“You said you were a stranger in London?”
“An utter stranger.”
“Are you seeking a Mr. Harmon?”
“No.”
“Then I believe I can assure you that you are on a fruitless errand, and will not find what you fear to find. Will you come with us?”