Chapter 2

“Brodski, by Jingo!” was Hickler’s silent commentary, as he looked at
his guest. “Doesn’t know me, evidently—wouldn’t, of course, after all
these years and with his bad eyesight. Take a seat, sir,” he added
aloud. “Will you join me in a little refreshment to while away the
time?”

Brodski murmured an indistinct acceptance, and, as his host turned to
open a cupboard, he deposited his hat (a hard, grey felt) on a chair in
a corner, placed his bag on the edge of the table, resting his umbrella
against it, and sat down in a small arm-chair.

“Have a biscuit?” said Hickler, as he placed a whisky-bottle on the
table together with a couple of his best star-pattern tumblers and a
siphon.

“Thanks, I think I will,” said Brodski. “The railway journey and all
this confounded tramping about, you know——”

“Yes,” agreed Silas. “Doesn’t do to start with an empty stomach. Hope
you don’t mind oat-cakes; I see they’re the only biscuits I have.”

Brodski hastened to assure him that oat-cakes were his special and
peculiar fancy; and in confirmation, having mixed himself a stiff jorum,
he fell to upon the biscuits with evident gusto.

Brodski was a deliberate feeder, and at present appeared to be somewhat
sharp set. His measured munching being unfavourable to conversation,
most of the talking fell to Silas; and, for once, that genial
transgressor found the task embarrassing. The natural thing would have
been to discuss his guest’s destination and perhaps the object of his
journey; but this was precisely what Hickler avoided doing. For he knew
both, and instinct told him to keep his knowledge to himself.

Brodski was a diamond merchant of considerable reputation, and in a
large way of business. He bought stones principally in the rough, and of
these he was a most excellent judge. His fancy was for stones of
somewhat unusual size and value, and it was well known to be his custom,
when he had accumulated a sufficient stock, to carry them himself to
Amsterdam and supervise the cutting of the rough stones. Of this Hickler
was aware, and he had no doubt that Brodski was now starting on one of
his periodical excursions; that somewhere in the recesses of his rather
shabby clothing was concealed a paper packet possibly worth several
thousand pounds.

Brodski sat by the table munching monotonously and talking little.
Hickler sat opposite him, talking nervously and rather wildly at times,
and watching his guest with a growing fascination. Precious stones, and
especially diamonds, were Hickler’s speciality. “Hard stuff”—silver
plate—he avoided entirely; gold, excepting in the form of specie, he
seldom touched; but stones, of which he could carry off a whole
consignment in the heel of his boot and dispose of with absolute safety,
formed the staple of his industry. And here was a man sitting opposite
him with a parcel in his pocket containing the equivalent of a dozen of
his most successful “scoops”; stones worth perhaps—— Here he pulled
himself up short and began to talk rapidly, though without much
coherence. For, even as he talked, other words, formed subconsciously,
seemed to insinuate themselves into the interstices of the sentences,
and to carry on a parallel train of thought.

“Gets chilly in the evenings now, doesn’t it?” said Hickler.

“It does indeed,” Brodski agreed, and then resumed his slow munching,
breathing audibly through his nose.

“Five thousand at least,” the subconscious train of thought resumed;
“probably six or seven, perhaps ten.” Silas fidgeted in his chair and
endeavoured to concentrate his ideas on some topic of interest. He was
growing disagreeably conscious of a new and unfamiliar state of mind.

“Do you take any interest in gardening?” he asked. Next to diamonds and
“weekly property,” his besetting weakness was fuchsias.

Brodski chuckled sourly. “Hatton Garden is the nearest approach——” He
broke off suddenly, and then added, “I am a Londoner, you know.”

The abrupt break in the sentence was not unnoticed by Silas, nor had he
any difficulty in interpreting it. A man who carries untold wealth upon
his person must needs be wary in his speech.

“Yes,” he answered absently, “it’s hardly a Londoner’s hobby.” And then,
half consciously, he began a rapid calculation. Put it at five thousand
pounds. What would that represent in weekly property? His last set of
houses had cost two hundred and fifty pounds apiece, and he had let them
at ten shillings and sixpence a week. At that rate, five thousand pounds
represented twenty houses at ten and sixpence a week—say ten pounds a
week—one pound eight shillings a day—five hundred and twenty pounds a
year—for life. It was a competency. Added to what he already had, it
was wealth. With that income he could fling the tools of his trade into
the river and live out the remainder of his life in comfort and
security.

He glanced furtively at his guest across the table, and then looked away
quickly as he felt stirring within him an impulse the nature of which he
could not mistake. This must be put an end to. Crimes against the person
he had always looked upon as sheer insanity. There was, it is true, that
little affair of the Weybridge policeman, but that was unforeseen and
unavoidable, and it was the constable’s doing after all. And, there was
the old housekeeper at Epsom, too, but, of course, if the old idiot
would shriek in that insane fashion—well, it was an accident, very
regrettable, to be sure, and no one could be more sorry for the mishap
than himself. But deliberate homicide!—robbery from the person! It was
the act of a stark lunatic.

Of course, if he had happened to be that sort of person, here was the
opportunity of a lifetime. The immense booty, the empty house, the
solitary neighbourhood, away from the main road and from other
habitations; the time, the darkness—but, of course, there was the body
to be thought of; that was always the difficulty. What to do with the
body—— Here he caught the shriek of the up express, rounding the curve
in the line that ran past the waste land at the back of the house. The
sound started a new train of thought, and, as he followed it out, his
eyes fixed themselves on the unconscious and taciturn Brodski, as he sat
thoughtfully sipping his whisky. At length, averting his gaze with an
effort, he rose suddenly from his chair and turned to look at the clock
on the mantelpiece, spreading out his hands before the dying fire. A
tumult of strange sensations warned him to leave the house. He shivered
slightly, though he was rather hot than chilly, and, turning his head,
looked at the door.