"
But we were nearer a clue to the Quinton jewels than we then supposed.
We talked of other things, and presently rose and left the restaurant,
strolling quietly toward home. Some little distance from the Strand, and
near our own door, we passed an excited Irishman--without doubt an
Irishman by appearance and talk--who was pouring a torrent of angry
complaints in the ears of a policeman. The policeman obviously thought
little of the man's grievances, and with an amused smile appeared to be
advising him to go home quietly and think no more about it. We passed on
and mounted our stairs. Something interesting in our conversation made me
stop for a little while at Hewitt's office door on my way up, and, while I
stood there, the Irishman we had seen in the street mounted the stairs. He
was a poorly dressed but sturdy-looking fellow, apparently a laborer, in a
badly-worn best suit of clothes. His agitation still held him, and without
a pause he immediately burst out:
"Which of ye jintlemen will be Misther Hewitt, sor?"
"This is Mr. Hewitt," I said. "Do you want him?"
"It's protecshin I want, sor--protecshin! I spake to the polis, an' they
laff at me, begob.
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